


Clays of a Cold Star

by grumblebee



Category: Turn - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Ben restores a house, Body Horror, Fingering, HGTV wet dream, Horror, Lust to love, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Oral Sex, Suspense, artisan!George, carpenter!Ben, hot summer fling, past mention Halemadge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: Ben spends his summers restoring historic houses when he finds a lovely Second Empire Victorian in need of a little tender love and care. The crown jewel of the home is a large empty space above the foyer, where a stained glass window was shattered. Determined to return the home to its former glory, Ben reaches out to an artist; a glass blower by the name of George Washington, whose work adorns churches across the state. It all starts falling into place, in work and love. A perfect summer.And then Ben finds the corpse buried in his backyard.





	1. Chapter 1

July 1st, the start of a new summer, and it started with a jammed key in the door. The house was old; in fact, Ben wanted it that way, but it was a faltering start to the long personal project of restoring an antique home. The lock looked rusted, something stopping the key from turning properly, and Ben gritted his teeth over the idea of having to wait three hours for a locksmith on his first day in town. 

“Mr. Tallmadge?”

There was the sound of heels hitting the cement driveway, and thuds up the short flight of stairs. Ben pried his eyes away from the lock to meet his guest, his eye guided toward the neat green blazer she wore.

“Abigail, hi.” Ben mumbled, pulling the key free from the lock. “I’m just having some problems with the lock.” He gestured to the lock sheepishly, not willing to admit he had been jimmying it for a solid fifteen minutes. Abigail pulled a small crinkled envelope from her pocket, opening it just enough for Ben to glimpse a flash of silver. 

“I apologize, Mr. Tallmadge. My assistant handed you the wrong key. That one is for the back door. Those old keys all look similar.” She said, handing over the envelope. 

“Thank you. A-and it's Ben, please.” Ben laughed with relief as the door opened smoothly. “Thank God, I don't have to stand in the heat.” Ben said. He stepped aside, gesturing for Abigail to enter the house. “Can I offer you some lemonade for your trouble coming out here? I promise it's only a little warm.” Ben held up the canvas bag on his arm, its bottom stained with condensation from the once chilled cartons of lemonade. Abigail nodded.

“Might as well. Those things are sweating as much as we are.” 

It was a charming house, just as the listing had said. An unpolished second empire fixer upper, looking for a good chance to clean up. Ben marveled at the high ceilings as he nosed around for the kitchen. Abigail pointed the way. 

“This is your first time seeing the house in person, isn't it?” She asked. Ben nodded, letting his hand trail against the wall. “Kind of strange, isn't it? Buying a house without viewing it first. Seems like a risky move.” She wasn't wrong. By all accounts Ben should have taken the drive down sooner and assessed the damage to the home before buying it. Pictures can lie, and Ben could easily leave this project without breaking even. But life back in Connecticut had become tough. 

His relationship with Nate had become strained, and after months of fighting Ben had decided the best course of action would be to take a break. This meant he lost a pair of hands on his summer project, and also a bed to sleep in. When Ben had found the listing, he hardly thought twice about buying it. Virginia was plenty far from Nate, and the previous owner had abandoned most of his furniture, leaving the house nearly liveable. It cut costs to be able to live there while he worked, and Ben was excited to be in a new town, far from the last four bitter months. 

“I, uh, do this a lot. The pictures look worse than the house actually is. Risky move avoided.” Ben joked. He found two glasses in the cupboard, and rinsed them thoroughly before pouring the lemonade. “But now I’m curious,what’s the personal history of this house?” Abigail took a long drink. She fanned herself with her free hand, and Ben wondered whether the previous owner had mercifully installed air conditioning. 

“Oh, lord, is it a story.” She said. “The house was built in 1879, for a man who had retired and moved down south from upper New York. He took his taste in architecture with him. It's the only historic second empire home in this part of Northern Virginia. The house passed through his family for a few generations until it was sold. It wasn't until the previous two owners that the house fell into disrepair.” 

Ben quirked an eyebrow. The kitchen itself was a dingy mess, with scuffed linoleum and creaky cabinets. In the foyer and parlor there was peeling paint on the walls, and wallpaper bubbled and yellowed from hidden water damage. There were floorboards that shifted as he walked. And they hadn’t even ventured upstairs yet. “Two owners? For all this damage?” 

“Yes, I'm afraid. The first one was a drunk. Just keeping the lights on came second to a good bottle of whiskey. Then his son, Mr. Arnold, took over. He was kind of a bitter man. I met him a few times when he tried to sell the house after his father died. But no realtor would take it as it was. He did a little repairing to the outside, most likely for curb appeal. Still, my firm wouldn't take the risk, so he kept on living here.” 

Ben looked around the kitchen thoughtfully. The fridge was new, probably within the last year or so. But the stove was ancient. Ben figured by the looks of a heavily used microwave that Arnold wasn't very fond of cooking his own meals. “Finances were rough for him too, then?”

“Terribly so. He was a pharmacist, which could have made a good living. He owned a little drug store not far from here. But they opened a Wal-Mart and he had to board up, along with a dozen other businesses.” Abigail sighed. “Turns out he wasn't a good saver, either. He began to take out loans, and when he couldn't pay them back the loan sharks hounded him. Then, finally, about 10 months ago he abandoned the house. Folks in town think he took what little cash he had and fled his debts. He's probably out west now, free of this old place.” 

It figured that's why the house was fully furnished. A man desperate to escape his debts flees in the night. But Ben tried to look on the bright side. Thanks to Mr. Arnold, Ben had a summer hidey hole. A safe haven where he could sweat out these last few months and return to Connecticut a better man. And who knows, he could probably find something of value to sell to the antique shops in here. That is, if Arnold hadn't sold them already. 

By the time they had finished their lemonade, Ben had collected a good amount of information from Abigail. Hardware stores, good nightlife, cheap movie theaters. She helped locate a thick yellow phone book, sheepishly admitting not every business was listed online. “Things are slower here. Best save google for Wal-Mart and Home Depot.” Ben thanked her greatly, and soon he was waving her off from the front steps, watching as she turned out of the driveway, and down the long narrow road sun baked that stretched into the distance. Ben shielded his eyes with his hand, frowning at the heat shimmering off the asphalt. Trees. He would definitely plant trees. 

Not wasting any time, Ben set to settling into his new home. The first task was locating a small air conditioner in the parlor, and making sure it worked. The thing was ancient, and hummed loudly, blowing mostly hot air. It was after the fourth or fifth trip back from his car, laden with trash bags full of his possessions, that the room felt noticeably cooler. Ben sneezed a couple times and cursed himself for not having the sense to clean the filter first. 

The upstairs master bedroom was not so fortunate. There was a large bed, and beautiful windows, but no overhead fan or air conditioning to chase away the stifling heat. Ben threw his clothes on the bed and searched around for something he could use. A box fan, or a small table fan. Something he can prop by his bedside to help him sleep at night. When he found neither, he made a note of it on his phone. Just another thing he’d need to pick up before the day was through.

Ben had stopped in the parlor, third glass of lemonade in hand, when his phone buzzed. A quick glance confirmed it was Caleb, his name flashing on the screen as the Skype tone droned on. The call started with a small bloop, and Caleb’s jovial bearded face filled the screen.

“Tallboy! Long time no see!” 

“You saw me last Tuesday.” Ben laughed. On screen Caleb bobbed around, and Ben could tell he was on his boat. “Are you slacking off at work?” Caleb smiled, flipping the camera around to show off the view of the sea. 

“Not today. I took Woody out fishin’, but he's a little green around the gills right now. Don't know if you can hear him.” Ben could faintly make out the sound of retching over the sound of the waves. “Hasn't caught one fish, neither. Ain't that a shame.” Ben lifted the front of his shirt in front of the AC, hoping to cool his belly. 

“I'm about ready to switch with him. The heat is unbearable.”

“That's right! You just got down there! How's the place? Let's have a look.” Caleb said, sitting down on a deck chair. “I need a proper before n’ after, tallboy.” Ben tapped the camera icon at the top of the screen, flipping the view to his feet. He waved the camera around the parlor, tilting the phone so caught the light. On screen he could see how the wallpaper bubbled and cracked, and he followed the damage up to a yellow stained ceiling.

“Christ, Benny, whoever decorated here got sloppy.” Caleb joked. He took a swig of beer, leaning closer to his side of the screen. “What room is this?”

“The parlor. Pretty big, too. Most of the damage is the wallpaper.”

“Mold?”

“God, I hope not.” Ben sighed. “Or else I’ll have to abandon this place too.” He walked through the foyer, going back to the kitchen. “There’s some new appliances too, so I won't need to replace the whole kitchen.” Caleb hummed thoughtfully, and watched as Ben guided him through the downstairs. Aside from the parlor and kitchen, there was an old guest bath. The sink was rusted and needed replacing, as well as the wallpaper. There was a sun room, with scuffed floors and torn screens, but lovely nonetheless. Ben fiddled with the back door, showing Caleb the extensive backyard that stretched towards the woods. Caleb let out a low whistle. 

“That's a pretty sight. What're the neighbors like?” 

Ben blanched, closing the screen door. “There, uh, are none. This house is so old and out of the way. It's like, a ten minute drive on the road before you see another house.” He could hear Caleb grunt with disapproval. 

“That ain't safe, Ben. You down there in some busted up ol’ house, with no one in case you see trouble?” Ben shrugged. He hadn't known there would be so much isolation. He figured he had a large yard from the looks of the listing. And sure, ten minutes by car  _ was _ pretty far from the nearest human, but it was also preferable. Ben would most likely do the heavy lifting and drilling after dark when the temperature dropped. He’d hate to receive noise complaints.

“It's fine, Caleb, really. I'm looking around and it barely looks as though anyone’s come here since the owner left. There's no signs of beer cans, or teens breaking in to get high. It's just a busted old house.” Ben traced a hand along the wall. “And besides, there's no fresh paint. If kids came here to graffiti there's no way the realtor would scrub that off but not slap on some new paint, right?” Caleb groaned in agreement, but it dripped with concern.

“Still, I’ll be checking in on ya until you make new friends.” He said. He took another swig of beer, finishing the can. “Or other acquaintances, eh?” He flashed a wicked grin and waggled his eyebrows playfully. Ben scoffed, and moved on upstairs. 

He was halfway up the staircase when Caleb spoke up. “Slow down, Tallboy. What's that?” Ben paused, looking around the staircase. He didn't see anything worth noting; just a few deep scratches on the stairs. Some bad peeling on the wall. 

“Just wear and tear. I can buff it out.” 

“No, Ben, behind you. Flip yer camera around.” Ben did so, finally catching view of what Caleb had seen. It was a window, though not one he had noticed before. It sat above the trim on the foyer, and had gone unnoticed due to the black garbage bag used to cover it. Ben turned back down the stairs to stand before it, noting that the wood was a little warped in the patch beneath it.

“It looks like a busted window.” Ben said. “Let me take this bag off. Maybe it's a quick fix I can do tonight.” He pulled up a chair, still giving Caleb the benefit of watching through the camera as he stood on it and peeled away the dirty bag. What he was greeted with was warm, golden light. It danced over his face in gem colored shards, dropping through what has once been something so splendid Ben felt guilty to see it like this. 

“What is it, Ben?”

“It's a stained glass window. Or, at least it  _ was _ one.” Ben said. He steadied his camera to give Caleb a look. It was a large circle window that flooded the foyer with light. It's edges were a halo of blues, violets and golds, melding and meeting to make a design he could no longer see. At its center was a clear view to the patchy brown grass on the front lawn. Someone had smashed the window. 

“What a pity. Some people have no class.” Caleb tsked. “That could have been a big selling point too.” Ben hummed an agreement.

“No one’s saying it can't be. Maybe I'll splurge on a new one.” He hopped off the chair and headed back towards the stairs. “But that's for another day.” Ben bounded up the stairs, trying not to think of the ungodly creaking and groaning they made as he reached the top. 

“There's not much up here, just this little study, a spare bedroom, and the master bedroom.” Ben sighed, quickly poking his camera into the first two before heading to the master bedroom. He pushed on the wood of the door, giving Caleb the full view. It was spacious, with a king sized bed pushed between two large windows overlooking the forest.

“Bit large for just you, tallboy. Expecting company?” Caleb joked. Ben picked up a bag that had rolled off the bed, tossing it back onto the pile. 

“Very funny, Caleb.” Ben said. He sat down on the bed, crinkling the trash bags holding his clothes. For a minute neither spoke, the silence filled with the crackly sound of waves coming through the speaker of his phone. It was a stark contrast to the stifling heat currently pressing against his nose and mouth. 

“You sure you're going to be able to finish by September? No offense, but you really chose a looker.” Caleb said. Ben rubbed his hand over his knee anxiously.

“Yeah. Probably not sell it on the spot, but finish it. But if you're so eager you can always come down here and help.” Caleb cracked open another beer, and Ben could hear the faint sound of Abe still heaving his guts over the rail of the boat.

“Love to, but can't. Your off season is my on season, Benny. I've already got three weeks of fishin’ charters booked. But I could make room for one more, eh? Take you out sailing. Eat what we catch fer a few days and travel down the coast.” 

Ben smiled softly. “Maybe next summer.” Caleb’s smile weakened, his eyes crinkling with concern. 

“Next summer. Should I take it that next year you and Nate won't be living your HGTV wet dream up here?” Ben squirmed. He hadn't really wanted to talk about it. Just telling Caleb there were problems made him ill. Nate had been his one serious boyfriend; so serious that marriage had been discussed. It would have been perfect, except for some gut wrenching feeling Ben had telling him he hadn't cast his net wide enough. And maybe it was selfish to not want to settle too soon, but the idea of a break to sort out what he wanted in life seemed ideal. But when this was over? Who knew if he’d still have a home to come back to.

“I don't know, Caleb. Nate said he'd call when he felt ready to talk to me again. I have a whole summer to figure that shit out. And so does he.” Ben mumbled it to the duvet, unable to look at Caleb. Shame pricked at his cheeks. 

“It's alright, Ben. No judgement. It's your life, y’know.”

“I know.” 

Caleb cleared his throat, looking to switch topics. “What's the plan for the day, Tallboy?” Ben lifted off the bed with a groan, heading towards the slightly ajar wood door the the master bath. He pushed it open, giving Caleb a look around. It was simple and elegant, but heavily worn. There was a splotchy antique vanity mirror over the sink, as well as a small wooden stool that stepped up to a deep bathtub.

“I figure I’ll shower first. Wash off the trip and then get a few immediate supplies.” Ben pulled back the curtain a touch, glimpsing a large ring of grime around the deep ceramic tub. Caleb made a retching sound, comically mocking in comparison to Abe’s genuine ones not fifteen feet away. 

“Hope you have a tetanus shot.” He said, noting the reddish color on some of the tub. “That ain't pretty.” It didn't look like rust, just average gross bathroom drippings, but Ben pulled back the curtain fully to take a closer look.

“Obviously, I'm going to scrub it good befo---” Ben shrieked loudly as the rail holding the curtain pulled free of the wall. Plaster and dust settled in the tub, on the floor, and all over him, leaving him coughing and wishing he had viewed the damn place. 

“You alright, Ben?!” 

Ben coughed. The railing and shower curtain lay on the floor, half propped against the lip of the tub. It's mounts had been torn right out. Ben cursed, and held his sleeve over his face. “Yeah, it just looks like I'll be needing a few things before I can shower today.” 

“Yeah,” Caleb joked “Like your money back.” 

* * *

It was a twenty minute drive to the hardware store, not bad by all accounts. He found it in the yellow pages, not wanting to make the 40 minute drive to Home Depot. He'd most likely get distracted, and that shower felt really necessary now. A few baby wipes cleaned up some of the grime, but the incessant damp heat made him feel like he would never be clean. He was all but itching for a shower when he pulled into the parking lot of a little outlet, right in front of the hardware store. The bell jingled and he entered.

“Welcome!” Came a voice from under the counter. There was a moment of rustling before a man popped out from behind the register. He was old, a little portly, but with a soft face and kind eyes. “Oh, I haven't met you before. New in town?” Ben wiped his palms on the front of his jeans. 

“Yes, I'm Ben.” 

“Ben, marvelous. I'm Samuel.” He touched his chest, head dipping in a polite sort of nod. Ben found it oddly amusing. “So what brings you here today, Ben?” 

“My shower rod got ripped from the wall. Mount and all. Do you maybe sell replacement rods? Or even just some stuff I can use to repair the old one?” Samuel smiled, and motioned for Ben to follow. They squeezed through some narrow aisles, carefully avoiding buckets of spackle until they turned to a wall covered in bathroom necessities. There were a few basic curved rods to choose from. 

“Nothing fancy, but then again they’ll hold up for whatever activities felled the last one.” He winked, and Ben caught the insinuation that his shower was wrecked in some out of control sex. 

“Oh,  _ no. _ No, I mean---” Ben always flushed, and always looked like a liar. “I've just moved into a rather old house. The curtain just...fell…” he picked up a silver rod and headed to the counter with Samuel. The man quirked an eyebrow. 

“Where, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Uh, the old house at the end of Oak.”

Samuel let out a small  _ ah, _ and punched in the price on the clunky old register. “ _ The Drunken Oak. _ I know that one well.” Ben read the price and fished for his wallet. 

“Familiar with Arnold? The last owner?” He pulled out a twenty and handed it to Samuel. The man sighed and opened the register. 

“Unfortunately. Mr.Arnold was the type of fellow who would try to talk down your prices. Being a former small businessman, you'd think he’d remember how set prices are for people like us.”

“You’ll be a former small businessman too, father, if you don't pay more attention to these books.” A voice came from the back of the shop. Ben peered around a display to catch sight of a thin, serious man carrying accounting books to the back office. “You can't just give extra screws for the fun of it.”

Samuel smiled. “That's my son Robert. He spends entirely too much time here. Robert, come say hello to Ben. He's moved into the house on Oak.” 

“ _ The Drunken Oak,  _ who could forget. I hope Ben is a little more accommodating to that old house than Mr. Arnold.” Robert said. He took a few steps towards the front of the store, if just so he could see Ben more clearly. Ben took his change back from Samuel. 

“I’d hope so. I'm taking the summer to restore it.” Ben smiled. Samuel placed some fliers in the plastic bag along with the rod. 

“So then you're here for the summer! Very good. I put in some community activities in case you and a friend want to have a night on the town.” Ben blushed a little.

“I actually, uh, am here alone.” 

Samuel snapped his fingers, bright smile on his face. “Perfect. You can take Robert!” Ben and Robert looked at each other, both wearing a look of awkward humiliation only parents could provide. 

“That’s not--”

“It's not necessary, father” 

Robert ducked back into the office, and Samuel sighed. “Can't blame a dad for trying. I promise you won't need a friend to fit in, Ben. And I'm sure we’ll be seeing plenty of you this summer as you buff that old gem.” Ben slipped his wallet into his back pocket just as a thought dawned on him. 

“Samuel, this may be a long shot, but do you know a place that does stained glass?” He asked. Samuel took out a small book and flipped through it.

“Why, in fact I do. There's a talented man by the name of George Washington. He does all the stained glass churches around here. Though he is rather pricey and takes his time. If you're interested in something I'd put in an order now.” He scribbled an address on a slip of paper, and put it in the bag. “If you can spare the time, drop by his workshop and take a look. I'm certain you won't be disappointed.” 

Ben smiled. He took the bag, about to leave when Samuel held up a hand for him to wait a moment. Ben watched as he dropped a small bag of extra screws in with the curtain rod.

“What my son doesn't know won't hurt him.” 

* * *

The workshop was a steel building not far from a small house. The signs on the road pointed Ben’s car towards a tiny cleared out patch of dirt that served as a parking lot. It had space for two or three cars, one already taken up by a large truck filled with sandbags. The door was ajar, and Ben could feel the intense heat from within the shop. Tentatively, Ben stepped through the entryway.

An audible gasp left his lips upon seeing the contents of the shop. The walls were lined with windows, each clear, but fixed with a small railing to display stained glass pieces for sale. It was a walk in portfolio, drenching Ben in rich reds and golds as he walked further into the shop. He recognized some of the pieces from his bible studies. Moses on the mountain. Jesus and John the Baptist. Adam and Eve. They tended to be larger pieces, obviously commissioned by one of the dozens of little churches Ben had driven past on his way down south. Smaller squares of blues and pinks peeked from higher windows, clusters of stained glass flowers catching the late afternoon light. There were even pieces the size of his palm, meant to hang in bedroom windows and sunrooms, forever twirling on a phantom breeze, casting colorful shadows along the wall. 

There was a sharp sound of scratching glass, and Ben’s attention was turned to a man hunched over a large work table. He worked on a sheet of violet glass, scoring deep into it with a tool. 

“Mr. Washington?” Ben approached, and the man glanced up momentarily from his work before returning his gaze to the glass with a huff. 

“You run and tell Reverend Worthington I don't care  _ how  _ many choir boys he sends down here. When I said three months, I  _ meant _ three months.” He said sternly. Ben looked around the shop, hoping to glimpse some small boy he had overlooked on his way in. He flushed when he realized he was the only one in the shop.

“I’m not...I'm not a choir boy.” 

The man straightened up, his own face turning pink as he examined Ben closer. “I apologize! That was awfully rude of me.” It was practically a mumble, and Ben waved off a little ‘ _ It's fine’ _ . “I'm George, though I have a feeling if you're way out here you already know that.” Ben smiled, taking a wide look around the shop.

“I was referred here by a man down at Townsend Hardware. I'm looking to replace a stained glass window.” George followed Ben’s gaze, watching them linger on some of the larger religious windows. 

“Replace, restore, customize. It can be done as long as you have the specifications. Church window?” He asked. Ben shook his head. 

“Residential, actually. I bought a house that had one, but it was all smashed up. I was thinking of commissioning a new one to replace it.” George placed his tools down, and walked to meet Ben. It was then Ben could really get a sense of him. He was tall, and broad shouldered. Rough around the edges. But he was handsome. Ben felt a little weak as he craned his neck to look up at him. For an older man he had a vibrant sort of quality. Maybe it was the cut of his jaw, or the way his eyes caught the light, but Ben was drawn to him. 

“I don't get to do residential windows all that much. Sounds like a fun challenge. Do you have any details on hand?” He asked. Ben blushed. He really should have measured the window, or at least given some thought as to what he wanted before he wandered in here. Ben twisted his fingers together nervously, picking at the cuticle.

“I, uh...this was sort of an  _ impromptu  _ referral. I mostly wanted to see what you've done, and maybe get an estimate?” Ben squeaked. He expected to be treated with the same firmness George used to scold the choir boys, but instead was greeted with a soft smile.

“My workshop is always open for a look. It's good to come in and draw inspiration. I can't give you an accurate estimate until I know details, but I can give you a general run down.” Ben nodded, following George over to a desk. He pulled out a notepad and began to scribble some information. Estimated wait time, drafting fees, material fees. How complexity would affect the price. Ben followed along thoughtfully, offering up his own information. That he would be gone by September. Could he pay a rush fee. What’s the instillation process. It took all of 20 minutes to run it down, and by the end Ben was handed a sheet filled front and back.

“I didn't catch your name.” George said. “And I assume you don't want to be listed as  _ not a choir boy  _ in my records.” Ben laughed. He tucked the paper into his pocket.

“I'm Ben.”

“And I'm George--which you already know.” He said, remembering once again this was a referral. “If you can spare the time to come in tomorrow I can start drafting your window. My shop is always open, just...please...trust my estimated time of completion.” Ben smiled.

“I promise I'm not the pester-thy-neighbor type. I'll come in for official business and leave you to your work.” Ben said. “And tomorrow, I’ll bring some ideas.” 

George walked him to the door of the workshop, and leaned on the screen, eyes wandering over Ben. If Ben had known better, he’d think he was being checked out. George leaned close, hand barely grazing past Ben’s side as he opened the creaky screen door for him. Was that the barest hint of a smile on his lips?  


“Well, like I said, the shop is open for you. Have a good evening, Benjamin.” 

Ben shot off a flustered goodbye and headed towards his car. George didn't linger long in the doorway, letting the screen slam shut as he returned to his work. He disappeared into a gem colored sea, and then out of sight.

Ben turned the key and blasted the air conditioner. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ben’s first evening alone was a long one. The sun had dipped low in the sky, but the heat barely lifted. Ben could feel his shirt stuck flush to his back as he opened the door, arms laden with supplies. After his visit to George, Ben had rounded up what little he needed for the night. Trudging around Wal-Mart in search of cleaning supplies and a new shower curtain seemed endless, and in the end Ben stopped by Boston Market to fill his aching belly. Even if he had the energy to cook, it was unlikely the stove in his new house was in working condition. Or safe. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, Ben dug into his food, figuring a half chicken and mash was as good of an inaugural meal as this house was going to get. It was warm, and soothed some small part of him that was starting to ache for the comforts of home. This like his own bed, leftovers waiting in the fridge...someone soft and caring to curl up to…

“ _ Fuck me _ .” Ben swore. It was too damn early for this. Homesick on his first day, after he told everyone he was just fine being out here. He swallowed a forkful of mash, and casually checked his emails on his phone, only half hoping to see a message from Nate. A small glimmer of hope that maybe Nate was as soft as he was, and that they could talk this over. 

_ Inbox (0) _

Figured as much. With the stink he made about venturing out and finding himself, he wouldn't be surprised if Nate never talked to him again. Ben stopped eating a little before his half chicken was picked clean, pushing it away to make room for a yellow notepad. He was here, he might as well work. 

Lists would need to be made. Things checked off in the order of how dire they were. A stove was definitely needed, since Ben didn't plan on living out of his microwave like Arnold had. A full sweep of the house was in order, too. Each room would be evaluated and measured. Flipping through the phone book, Ben began to formulate little ideas for the home. Whether he intended to paint or re-wallpaper the rooms. If he decided to do light landscaping to add a little curb appeal, or just stick to the bones of the house. What to do about the window...the stained glass one.

That was the most pressing. Samuel had said that George's pieces took time, and visiting the workshop proved that to be true. Ben needed sketches, measurements, ideas, all by tomorrow. Ben glanced over at the clock and frowned.  _ 7:30. _ And he still had to assemble the shower and then  _ take one. _ Ben wondered if it was too late to call Caleb and beg for an extra set of hands. The sketching could wait. 

Upstairs, Ben lay his supplies on the bathroom floor, and set to work. The debris was cleared out, and the wall prepped. Ben stood on the lip of the tub, fumbling with a screw as his mind raced. What colors would look best in the foyer window? Blue? Crimson? Some lovely emerald and violets? (The rod creaked, and Ben shifted his weight to avoid slipping into the grimy tub.) George’s floral pieces were so picturesque, maybe a lily on the water. Or a bluebird. He had seen George’s depiction of doves, and was quite impressed. He thought, perhaps, a bird on a wreath. (The screw was yet to be guided into the hole he had prepped, and rolled awkwardly in his fingers). Or maybe, lovebirds? Why  _ birds _ ? 

“ _ Shit!” _

Ben clenched his jaw as the screw he was fumbling with went flying from his fingers, hitting the tub and skittering noisily to the drain, where it disappeared with a few distant clanks. Ben eased off the tub and went back to the bag, grateful Samuel had gifted him so many spares. 

It was enough of a wake up call for Ben to finish his task uninterrupted, and begin to scrub the tub clear of its grime. Now, to be fair, Ben was never the cleaning type. Nate took care of the bathroom and kitchen, and he was more of a vacuum and laundry kind of guy. On the days Nate would go on business trips, or visit family alone, he would return to the beginnings of a slippery ring around the tub, and a very sorry Ben. But now, kneeling on the hard tile floor, scrubby brush in hand, Ben couldn't imagine how anyone could let it  _ get  _ this bad. 

The first few sprays of heavy duty cleaner barely made a dent, the brush merely scraping some of the grey and brown coating on the tub. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.” Ben hissed, spraying more around the tub. He had to open a window while the cleaner set in, the smell of bleach overwhelming. The smell of bleach was preferable to the combination smell bleach and grime, as the filth frothed up under his brush. It smelled of mildew and grease and something foul and indescribable, forcing Ben to sniff around to be sure there wasn't something nasty clogging up the pipe. It was miracle Arnold could bathe in here without slipping and breaking his neck. A solid thirty minutes of scrubbing finally revealed the white porcelain of the tub, and another fifteen cleared up the soap blocked shower head. By the time the tub was done, Ben felt as though he had scraped fifty years of filth from it.

And then the sweet, satisfying reward. 

The shower sputtered at first, letting out an empty hiss that made Ben want to burn the place down for insurance money, but it soon came to life. He ran the water for a few minutes to make sure there wouldn't be any problems before stripping off his clothes and hopping in. God, it was heaven. Even with the cheap bar of soap in hand, it felt like the best thing in the world. Ben took his time to wash off everything: the sweat, the grime, the heat, the car ride, the last couple months. It all dripped off with the suds and swirled down the drain. 

As Ben worked some shampoo into his hair his mind drifted back to the window. Bluebirds,  _ no,  _ blue bells? God, what was it with the color blue? Something soft and appealing to him. Not a sky blue or a navy, but a rich royal blue. Not unlike the thin, blue shirt George was wearing in his workshop. Ben bit his lip, dipping his head under the spray to rinse. It  _ was _ a good blue, especially on him. Especially when the shirt he wore was so thin that it clung to him in the heat. And Ben had always been weak in the knees for the tall and broad type. George was  _ definitely  _ one of those. Strong, firm, with broad hands he could use to pick Ben up with ease. Throw him on the bed...pin him down….

Ben was a little ashamed to admit that it had been a while since his last crush. His eye had never really strayed from Nate during their time together, and Ben was thrown full force back into the lusty little creature he was before Nate. Someone needy and desperate, who often found themselves ready to go home with a charming man at the bar, only to chicken out at the last minute. 

The shower was squeaked off before Ben could get too far into this little fantasy. The last thing he needed was to start banging people who could help him get this house in order. He ignored the voice in his head telling him that sex or not, he's leaving in August, so why not have fun? Kicking the sink cabinet doors shut a little roughly, Ben reminded himself that this wasn't  _ supposed _ to be fun. It was supposed to be a time for reflection. And work. And maybe, after all that, a little fun.    


* * *

 

Old houses creak, it's nothing unusual, but as Ben stepped out of the bathroom he truly felt uneasy. The sun had disappeared behind the horizon, leaving the sky a dusky purple, and his bedroom a darkened pit. Fumbling around in his towel, Ben found an old lamp, praying it still worked right. It clicked on without issue, filling the bedroom with warm yellow light. It was hazy and soft, like the lamp his father used to have at the bedside, evoking flickering memories of bedtime stories. Ben needed that as the house settled around him. 

Creaks, groans, pipes moaning. The place was noisy as it was old. The overgrown trees outside the window swayed like black waves, and their long branches tapped and scraped at the window. Caleb was right. He was all alone out here. And while that meant he didn't need to buy new curtains just yet, it also provided Ben with the eerie sense of being watched. Nervously, Ben grabbed some clothes from his plastic bag and took them back to the safety of the bathroom to change.  His phone buzzed on the bed not long after, Caleb’s face popping up on the screen.

“First night, Tallboy, how's it feel?”

Ben could tell Caleb was below deck, huddled in his sleeping cot beneath the bow of the boat. He recognized the scratchy blanket he used to curl under, as well as the softer one Ben bought for him not long ago. Ben moved some of the bags to the floor and settled on the bed.

“It's a complete shit hole.” He sighed. Caleb laughed loudly, and Ben was a little grateful for it. 

“I see you got the shower workin’. Or did you just hose off the in the yard?” Ben rolled his eyes. 

“Honestly, with how isolated this place is, I could probably do it. You should see outside the window, Caleb. It's pitch black. The moon went behind the clouds and the whole world disappeared.” He felt the words drift off into the room, as if they too would slip through the walls and out into the darkness. Nothing returned but the steady sound of creaking. 

“Aye, well before you go around flaunting yer full moon, do yourself a favor and make some friends? People who know it ain't just empty in that old house.” Caleb said. There was an edge to his voice that Ben was starting to feel more and more. 

“You'll be happy to know I've already done that. This guy and his son down at the hardware store chatted me up as I was buying the replacement rod. Knew this house and everything.” 

“A bit infamous?”

“Yeah. Doesn't seem like anyone liked the previous owners. Cheapskates. Unfriendly. They were happy to see me take the place. The father, Samuel, directed me to a stained glass artisan. I'm brainstorming ideas to give him tomorrow.” Ben said. He scratched at the notepad he pulled into his lap, pencil lazily doodling vague ideas. A flower. A bird. A bouquet. 

“Anything good?” Caleb asked. He disappeared off screen for a minute, clicking off one of the lights as a voice (presumably Abe) complained about it. When he returned, he leaned close to his laptop, the pale light illuminating his features. Ben sighed. 

“Not really. You should have seen his workshop, Caleb, it was gorgeous. Lots of church pieces, yeah, but he's really good at what he does. The whole place was dipped in color, it was astounding.” Ben trailed off, remembering once more the stifling heat of the workshop, the way the light cast rainbow shadows along the floor and walls. How George was pieced together like one tall, beautiful mosaic, made of shards of fused colored glass. Caleb cleared his throat.

“I know that look, Tallboy. You see something else you like in that shop?” Ben blushed, and returned to scratching at the pad. He scribbled loudly, trying to chase the thoughts of peeling George out of that clingy blue shirt from his mind.

“Nope. I did not.” Ben said. “And I won't be looking further.” His hand found a rhythm, now sketching something crisp and clear into the paper. “I'm only there for the window, and I know what I want.” Ben lifted his pencil from the page, staring down at the neat little doodle he had created: an oak tree. 

* * *

That morning Ben woke up to the most oppressive heat he had ever witnessed. Hot, humid, it hung so heavy in the air Ben startled from sleep as though he were drowning. The box fan humming in the corner was blowing stale, hot air. The open window was just as stifling. Peeling himself from the bed, Ben made his way to the shower, turning up the cold knob as far as it would go. 

Downstairs provided brief relief, the old air conditioner rattling loudly, but able to cut through some of the humidity. Ben took a tall glass of lemonade and his leftover chicken to the parlor, sitting close to the AC. Amongst the things left behind were a TV tray, as well as an old tube job television set he hadn't seen since his childhood. It sat in a little entertainment cabinet amongst VHS and early DVDs. Ben chuckled a little as he switched it on, and saw static. This baby was still analog. A few clicks through static channels were needed before the small screen filled up with the brightly lit set of a news studio, complete with two hosts staring back. 

“...and we are on heat watch here in Virginia. Highs today of 99-100F, lows at 85F. From the looks of it we could be settling in for a long heat wave, so as always, stay hydrated and be sure to check on the elderly. Blackout warnings are in effect.” 

Ben groaned as the next few segments rolled past, giving out heat wave tips. Public pool hours, community centers with air conditioning, the symptoms of heat stroke. It looked as though he would be doing the majority of his heavy labor at night, at least until the heat broke. There was no way the exterior of the house was being done until then. 

An old grandfather clock began to chime, alerting Ben that it was 11am. A late start to the day, sure, but the heat was so bad he didn't expect anyone to be moving quickly. His one duty today was to give George his window specifications. The measuring was simple enough, and Ben scribbled them down onto the paper he had received from George. He neatly tore the concept sketch from his notepad, folding it up inside his instructions, before heading out. 

There were few cars on the road, and for that Ben was thankful. The road shifted and shimmered like a mirage, and even with the air on full blast in the car, Ben could feel the heat of the sun searing his knuckles over the steering wheel. The first car he saw was parked on the shoulder, a man looking under the hood. A few more zipped by, only to slow considerably at a bend in the road. Ben gave into the rubbernecking as he approached the bend, taking a look out the passenger window. A dead deer, most likely succumbed to the heat, lay crumpled in the lane. Ben guided his car around it, grimacing at its cloudy eyes, and the flies already feasting upon them. 

By the time Ben pulled into the gravel parking lot of George's workshop, his knuckles were pink and tender. He unstuck himself from the seats, silently bracing himself to walk out of the fire and into the hell pit that was a hot glass workshop. He would make this quick, and ask little questions for the sake of sparing energy. 

Inside, however, felt remarkably similar to the outdoors. Curtains had been drawn over half the windows, willing the shop to cool in darkness. Ben walked cautiously towards the back, where he remembered George's desk being.

“George, I--  _ oh.” _

Ben stalled, his feet cementing to the floor as he caught sight of George. He was hunched over his work desk, small table fan whirring beside him. It was so weak it hardly ruffled the papers spread before him, let alone cooled him. It was apparent from the gray tank top, and the darker patch of sweat in the center of his chest, that the fan did little for George. Ben blushed as George looked up, eyes dark. 

“Benjamin, was it? You have those plans?” Ben nodded weakly, suddenly feeling gawky and awkward. He approached George, unfolding the concept sketch and handing it over. It took a great deal of strength not to marvel at George while he looked. A hefty helping of self control not to gaze at every inch of him; those strong arms, that broad chest, the auburn hair slightly plastered to his brow. Ben would only let his eyes wander a second before snapping them back to the page, feigning interest in his pitiful sketch. 

“And this is…” George started, obviously unable to decipher what the fuck Ben had drawn. 

“An oak tree. Sort of a play on the house I'm fixing up? You know, the Drunken Oak?” He said. George only looked down at the page, his lip giving into a faint twitch. Ben withdrew into himself. Perhaps George was not the kind for gossip. Was the idea crude, or cruel? In the silence that followed Ben rethought a million other ideas, ones less embarrassing than immortalizing the house’s alcoholic owners with expensive stained glass. Finally, George spoke.

“I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with that house.” His eyes studied the design, and Ben let out a sigh of relief. An artist at work. George picked up a pencil, and a fresh pad. He sketched a quick circle, and then an oak tree within it. He broke it down into sections, drawing thin lines that would soon be where the glass fused. Ben watched on in awe, amazed at how little effort it took for George to complete a basic sketch of the piece. It was his oak tree, standing dead center in the circle, it's branches reaching towards the sky. It's roots were gnarled and twisted, curling like fingers down towards the bottom half of the circle. It was beautiful. 

“ _ Woah.”  _ Ben breathed, “That's a lot better than my broccoli tree sketch.” George chuckled, and Ben flushed. What a great way to sound like a twelve year old next to an Adonis. Complete with his old boyish cargo shorts, and tshirt, Ben wasn't too surprised he was mistaken for a choirboy. George lay a strong hand on the table, leaning against it.

“That's why I like to clarify. I've seen worse sketches, yours at least looked like a tree of some kind.” George said. He smiled softly, in a way Ben found kind and reassuring. Their two sketches lay side by side on the table, the corners lifting just slightly from the wave of the fan. God, it was hot in here. Even with the curtains drawn, and a fan running, it was as bad as outside. Hot and sticky, like someone breathing down your neck. Ben could feel sweat beading down his back, and wished for a moment he could shed his damp shirt. 

George’s situation looked slightly better for a myriad of reasons. First and foremost the way he  _ looked. _ A thin blue shirt was enough to get Ben hot and bothered the day before, but a tank top (complete with strong tawny forearms and a thick bicep) was becoming a little too much. Ben shifted at the first twitch of his cock, averting his attention quickly to the drawings.

“Is there anything else you need me to do?”  _ Besides stand in a way to conceal this hard on _ , Ben completed in his mind. George grunted out a  _ no _ , and collected the paper. 

“Not unless you have certain color schemes in mind.”

“I leave it to artist’s discretion.” 

“Perfect for me. Let me walk you out.” 

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do with them as George walked him out for the second day in a row. Obviously it wasn't needed, he knew the shop enough to find the door, but Ben didn't complain. Despite what he had told Caleb, there was something else in the shop he had his eye on. Well, not at the moment, for right now his eyes were fixed on the floor shyly, following his own feet. 

“You spend a lot of time in your shop?” Ben asked dumbly. Of course he did. Look at the pieces! Hours upon hours of work happened here. George hummed. 

“Yup. I installed a shower, and brought in a futon. Some days I can't afford to break from here to trot home and settle in, so I stay out here.” George smiled as Ben let out a laugh. “I know how silly that sounds, being 200 feet away from my house.” 

Ben sighed. “No, I get it. I'm the same way. I could have rented a motel or small apartment with working amenities, but instead I'm residing in the house I'm fixing up.” They stopped by the screen door, George leaning against the frame.

“Where's the place you're fixing up?”

“Oak Lane, at the back end by the woods.” 

George’s brow furrowed as if tracing the route in his mind. “Sort of a ways from here. Do you need me to install the window? I can haul it out there.” He nodded to the truck parked in the driveway, the flatbed in the back piled high with supplies. 

“That would be fantastic. I'm a little nervous to put it in myself. Might be too heavy for one person.” 

“You're fixing up a whole house with no crew?” George asked, a little bewildered. Ben felt pride bloom in his chest, though he tried not to puff it out too much. 

“I do this kind of thing a lot. Buy a house, fix it up, go back to work in September.” Ben felt the words spill out faster as George leaned closer, his eyes wandering up and down his frame once more. Ben felt his cheeks burn. 

“One set of hands is all I need for most things. Except this window, obviously. I need someone, uh…” Ben’s eyes were drawn back to the smooth skin of George's upper arm. “... _ strong. _ For the installment, that is.”

The smile on George's lips was coy and playful, and Ben could take all of three seconds of it before averting his eyes back to the floor. 

“I have no problem installing it. I'll waive the fee, as well. I respect a man who can take on a task like that. It's a shame you're leaving so soon, Benjamin. I'm not keen on many people in town. You seem like a good one.” Ben cleared his throat, unsure of whether this was friendly conversation or a swing at flirting.

“You don't have to waive the fee, I’d hate to underpay you for your beautiful work. I can't even imagine how you do it, so I don't mind paying you what you're owed.” 

George paused a second. “Well then,” he said, looking around “stop by more often. When you can. I'm always working on something. I can show you how it's done.” 

“Oh, I couldn't! I'd be in the way--”

“Nonsense. It's just me out here. Me, and the choirboys trying to shake me down for windows. Be my bouncer. Scare them off and I'll show you some tricks.” Ben cringed at the idea that anybody would take him seriously as a bouncer, especially standing two feet from George, but it was a tempting offer. Ben took a card from his pocket and scribbled his number.

“Uh, call me anytime. I'll drop by and hover.” George took the card with a flick of his wrist, holding it loosely between his index and middle finger.

“Hover away.” And with that, George opened the door letting Ben back out into the scorching sun. Ben had barely taken two steps before a voice called him once more.

“Benjamin!”

Ben whirled around, a little too eager. “Yes?” George looked concerned, and perhaps Ben had made another misstep. 

“You said you live far out by the woods?” Ben nodded. “Drive slow. A heatwave does weird things to wildlife. Deer are going to stumble into the road. Sometimes even coyotes.” Ben thought back to the deer he had seen crumpled in the lane, tongue lolling out towards the searing hot asphalt. 

“I will, George. Thank you.”

George winked, and closed the screen door behind him. Ben blinked dumbly, eyes adjusting to the strength of the sun. God...it was so fucking hot.    



	3. Chapter 3

Nothing got done that day, thanks to the heat. Ben had figured he'd wait out the sun, and start clearing debris after dark when it was cooler. It gave him time to gather much needed supplies; trash bags, groceries, toiletries. 

The store provided good refuge, and it was clear a good number of people chose to linger around as long as possible. Ben’s knuckles were pink and tender, surprisingly sensitive from the heat of the sun coming through his windshield. Each frozen dinner was looked over carefully in his hands, if only to serve the guilty pleasure of cold against his fingers. He wandered case to case, letting his hand lightly drag over the foggy frosted glass, examining the contents of each. Frozen peas, two of those. Frozen berries, good for smoothies. Frozen meals, nice and quick. Ice cream...well who doesn't want ice cream? 

Ben's eyes danced over the labels, stopping briefly on one carton of chocolate chip cookie dough. Nate’s flavor. The one he always brought home after a fight, until Ben noticed  _ Ben & Jerry’s  _ cartons in the trash once or twice a week. The sight of it made his stomach twist, and he had to rip his gaze away to inspect other flavors. Ben let out a huff of amusement as he spied a carton of strawberry cheesecake sitting a few rows over. He hasn't had that one in years. It joined the other frozen goodies in the cart, and rolled away with him. 

* * *

At home, Ben weighed his options silently, choosing chicken pot pie over lasagna, and threw it into the microwave. It popped and hissed as he cut up some vegetables and tossed them with vinaigrette. A set of cheap curtains and a tension rod had been installed across the parlor entryway, doing its best to keep the air conditioner functional. The tshirt and cargo shorts had been swapped for a tank top and boxers, and Ben pulled at his top often to unstick it from his back. He carried the salad to the to tray, as well as a hurried run back to grab his steaming hot dinner. Dinner was quiet. 

Everything was quiet.

The tv did little to keep him company, and as the day stretched on Ben became more and more anxious for a conversation that didn't involve daytime tv drama. He fumbled with his phone, pressing Caleb’s number. 

“Tallboy! How's it hanging. Big heat wave on the mainland, eh?” Ben smiled, hearing the crackling feedback come through the phone. Caleb probably headed out to sea. 

“Yeah, a biggie. I'm not draining your satphone am I?” Ben asked. There was the sound of shoes on the metal stairs leading above deck, and the pop of a beer can. 

“Never, Benny. I got a few folks doin’ a charter today. We’re hookin’ around Montauk. Brisker here than on the beaches, eh? How far are you from Virginia Beach? Maybe I swing down and cool you off.”  He topped it off with a hearty laugh, and a sip of his beer. Ben pressed an ice cube from his glass to his forehead.

“I'm far inland, Caleb. Couple hours drive.” Ben sighed. “All woods and mosquitoes.” Though he did mull it over. Talking on the phone was nice, but there was something about hanging out with Caleb that made everything feel better. Even when they were kids, and Ben would get chewed out over bad grades, Caleb would take him by the arm and not let go until he smiled. He needed a little of that right now. 

“Ah, goody goody. Play hooky a few days and stretch yer sea legs with me. That old piece of shite will still be standing when you get back.” The house seemed to shift and groan in protest, causing Ben to sit up uneasily in his seat.

“Keep saying that.” Ben said bitterly. The ice clanked around in his glass as he swirled it, trying hard not to focus on how badly he wanted to be home right now. “I can't do it right now, y’know? I already wasted a day due to the heat. Who knows when it’ll let up. Maybe once I do one or two repairs I'll feel better about leaving for a long weekend.” 

Caleb hummed. “I ain't sayin’ drop everything and come with me, Tallboy. I got a job too, ya know. A pretty fine one at that.” Ben laughed. His fingers held tight to the ever shrinking ice chip, cold wet dribbling down his elbow and onto his thigh. 

“I know. I'll keep it in mind.”

“Well alrighty then!” 

The conversation drifted naturally, as it always did with Caleb. He was full of stories, and the day to day seemed almost larger than life when he retold it. Trips to the beer store ended in new, eccentric friends. Every fish reeled in was the biggest sucker he had ever seen-- despite sailing all his life. Nights at the marina were spent gambling with fellow sailors, swapping niche trinkets from their boats.

“I'm tellin’ ya, Tallboy, it was a bonafide singing fish plaque. Like the oldie on tv--uh, what's it's name--”

“Big Mouth Billy Bass?”

“That's the bastard! Well, like I said, I've got a good hand and I'm eyeing this fish…” A few minutes (and good laughs) later, Ben is listening to the crackly tinny sounds of  _ Don’t Worry, Be Happy _ coming out of what he must assume is a flapping singing fish, with Caleb whistling along.

“How many times have you played that today?” Ben asked, heaving himself up from the chair.

“Dunno. Half a dozen, maybe?” He pressed it once more, and the distance sound of laughter could be heard. “It's a hit with the folks.” Ben set his glass down in the sink and ran the water.

“You may want to look up  _ captive audience, _ Caleb.” 

By now the sun had begun to dip low in the sky, and the trees stood like dark ink blots against the sky. From the kitchen window over the sink, Ben surveyed the backyard, grimacing at how horribly overgrown it was. Tall grass shot up and tangled towards the sun. What was once a flower bed was now overcome with weeds. And, of course, there was the scourge of every forgotten garden-- wild mint. It seemed Arnold couldn't wrangle that either, and what was once a pot of herbs now choked out a good portion of the yard surrounding the porch. Wild mint taller than his hip. Perfect. He’d have a lot of fun trying to clear that out. 

“Doesn't sound like this Mr. Arnold was meant to be a homeowner.” Caleb said. Ben hummed in agreement, turning away from the window.

“This guy let the whole place fall to pieces. I don't know how he could let it get this bad. Couldn't he see how dangerous it was?” Ben eyed the old stove, but soon found his gaze turned towards the peeling paint on the ceiling as well. 

“Some people ain't thinkin’ of danger, Benny. How many folks can point out the wrong in their day to day? Especially when it's covered with a coat of paint and a doily. It's not until the floor gives out from under them that they see their lives for the rotted state it is. Ain't nothin’ left then but to cut and run.”

Ben felt the wooden planks groan under his feet. He understood the willingness to turn a blind eye. But that felt more like taking quicker showers to avoid thinking about the ring in the tub. Or stuffing the trash can to the point of bursting, because taking it out in the rain is annoying. This house was decrepit and rotted. The bones stood strong, but the meat of it  was falling away, exposing more and more unseen problems. Ben squashed down his own urge to cut and run, and turned his attention back to Caleb. 

“I've sunk in too much to do the same. Hopefully the heat lifts soon so I can work.” 

“Can you keep cool tonight?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Without the sun the world beyond the glass windows of the house disappeared. The forest became out of focus as it blended into the night sky, only seldom illuminated by glimpses of the moon through the clouds. And with those clouds came humidity. Thick waves of it without the promise or relief of rain. 

Ben had set up camp downstairs, laying across an old couch in front of the rattling AC. The tv was turned down low, an old episode of Fraiser mumbling in the background as Ben tried to cool off. Caleb had hung up a few hours before, declaring it was time to cook his catch, and since then Ben had been making lists of all the things needed to be done within the house. But after five or six hearty lists, including doodles of the floor plan, Ben’s eyelids began to grow heavy and soon the gentle sound of snores accompanied the near muted laugh track. 

Well, almost.

There were other sounds. Sounds that would have gone amiss in the city. But here in the middle of nowhere they were amplified, with nothing but the silence of the woods to ring out into. Ben awoke with a start as his air conditioner rattled abruptly. It wasn't the usual cough and sputter of the old machine. This rattle was sharper, like something had knocked into the back end in the dark. Ben stilled, ears pricking to listen for anything. Footsteps. Wind. Breathing. When nothing returned but the sound of his pulse, he eased his head back onto the pillow. This time not for much longer. There was another sharp snap outside the house, like twigs broken from a bush.  _ Deer,  _ Ben thought.  _ Only deer.  _ But the sound trickled slowly, as if the deer were stopping and going around the side of the house, grazing on whatever overgrown greens it found there. In the dead of night it was deafening, and Ben figured the longer he stayed downstairs, the more paranoid he would be.

He relocated back to the bedroom, not as content with the two box fans pointed at his bed than he was with the AC, but Caleb was right. He was alone. And if this helped him sleep a little better, than he could deal with the heat. 

The box fans provided a steady hum and buzz, something that reminded Ben sorely of sleeping over his grandma's house. Curled up on a bed with a hard lumpy pillow, table fan pointed at his face as his grandmother opened all the windows. It wouldn't take long for him to drift off to sleep, light seeping in from a crack under the door where his grandma sat and read her book. There was no such light here. The old rickety door was closed shut, and the gap beneath it pitch black. The only light came from his bedside clock, the numbers reading 10:45. An early night in bed, and early morning to rise. Ben drifted to sleep once more.

* * *

This house was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Sticky with sweat, Ben frowned and fumbled for the box fans sitting close to his bed. No breeze. Frowning, Ben turned his head to the clock. The screen was black and lifeless.  _ Shit.  _ Groping in be darkness for his phone, Ben turned on the flashlight app and rose from bed. Perhaps two fans was too much for the old house, and he had blown a fuse. The box was in the kitchen, and Ben took his sweet time crawling down the steps. As if the old, unstable wood weren't hazardous enough, Ben felt completely drenched with sweat. The soles of his feet shifted beneath him, leaving hot imprints on the scuffed floors. 

The box was inset on the wall by the kitchen table, and Ben left his flashlight face up to illuminate the room as he eased the door open. The fuses were labeled, but the handwriting was small and old. There were scratch offs and corrections, obvious marking that Arnold or someone else had tampered with the electrical wiring in the house. If he didn't blow himself to bits fiddling with the box, or burn the house down, it would be a miracle.

Ben flicked one at random. On and off. Nothing. He chose a few more yielding the same result. This wasn't just a blown fuse. It could be worse. Worried about being cut off without power, Ben found a manual flashlight in a junk drawer, and put his phone on airplane. The one good thing about this place was that it came equipped with everything he needed in a pinch. Even things that he wouldn't have thought he needed--like a radio. 

The batteries still worked, and Ben tuned through some static channels on AM before finding some voices that sounded like a news broadcast. 

“...heat wave continuing to stifle the east coast. Rolling blackouts have been reported throughout Virginia and Maryland, as well as parts of Pennsylvania. Residents are advised to keep cool anyway they can as power is restored.  Roads are to be kept clear for emergency vehicles only until further notice.” 

Ben shut off the radio, tucking it under one arm. Fucking perfect. A black out just in time to ruin his groceries. Bitterly, Ben grabbed his pint of  _ Ben & Jerry’s  _ from the freezer, noting it was already soft to the touch. He'd have to go out and buy a small backup generator tomorrow, if only to keep his food cold. 

The radio kept time for him, displaying it was just past 2:30am when his spoon scraped the bottom of the carton. He felt too sick to move, and his fingers were cold and numb. Ben set aside the carton to strip out of his undershirt and boxers, both of which had become damp with sweat. There was no use changing into a fresh pair now, not when the power was out and he was unable to see while showering. Instead Ben reclined into bed, a thin sheet draped over him as he pressed cold fingers to his temples.  _ Sleep. Just fucking sleep. _

Sleep was a combination of uncomfortable tossing, followed by deep bouts of dreaming. Ben flipped his pillow to the cool side, and closed his eyes to see his home in New Haven. He would walk up and down each street, it's quiet disturbed only by his footsteps. Rhythmic, pacing footsteps that tapped and scraped the cement as he walked through the night. He did this often after a fight, taking a long walk to clear his mind and go elsewhere.    


Away from Nate. Elsewhere meant away from Nate. 

It meant taking the long way home, or winding up every side road until he finally looped back to their house. It meant texts from Nate answered curtly. It meant finally shuffling home to see Nate on the computer, shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on the screen. 

That didn't happen this night though. Not when Ben’s body was hundreds of miles away. Only his mind returned to New Haven, almost as if stuck in limbo. As if maybe this walk will be the walk he realizes he can't go back to a life with Nate. As was every walk he had up until he told Nate he needed a break. Now there was only his footsteps creeping throughout the streets as he rounded the block towards Nate's house. 

The sound of cement beneath his heels faded, first falling silent before shifting beneath his feet like wooden boards. Steady creaking groans as if he had swapped the streets out for the antique floors of the rotted old house he slept in. They were muffled, and out of step with his feet. The faster Ben walked, the more it felt as though he were outrunning his own footsteps.

Nate's house was in sight, a light on in the upstairs window. Tears pricked at Ben’s eyes, the light smearing across the sky as he reached the front door. The knob was rusted shut, refusing to budge an inch as Ben tried to twist it. All the while the creaking sound of his phantom footsteps paced around the street like a curious stranger, creaking on tiptoe. 

“Nate, please! Open the door…” Ben cried. The light in the window flickered. “Nate, come on. Let's talk about this.” The footsteps stopped their pacing and began to advance, slowly making their way up the driveway. Ben felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, the air electrified as the footsteps neared. 

“Nate,  _ Nate.” _

They were almost to him. Ben twisted the knob desperately with no avail. 

“Nate,  _ please,  _ let me in!” 

Something stepped on the back of Ben’s shoes, roughly scraping his skin, but he couldn't turn around. It pressed deeper and harder into his heel, demanding his attention. Hot, sticky sweat beaded between Ben’s shoulder blades. His eyes hurt, as if straining against the sun. Everything felt searing and painful. And then--

_ Beep beep. Beep beep. _

Ben's eyes cracked open, assaulted by a beam of sunlight slanted across his face. The digital watch on his wrist beeped incessantly, and Ben realized the fans had started back up. 6 am, and it was back to being alone. Just him, a soggy ice cream carton, and the sounds of creaking through the ajar door to his bedroom. 

* * *

The radio confirmed that power had been successfully restored to his part of Virginia, had it not been already obvious by the various switches Ben had left on the night before as he tested the fuses. The food in the fridge was ruined, as well as the freezer. Today's plans would have to be postponed for a trip to the hardware store and grocery. 

A soft buzz came from the pocket his phone was tucked in. Ben wiped his hands on the front of his shirt before glancing at it's screen. A text, and from an unknown number.

_ [Benjamin, it's George. If it's not too much trouble, I want to show you some options for the wrought iron fitting around your window. At your earliest convenience, of course. You know where to find me.] _

Ben bit his lip to suppress the giddy smile crossing his face. Make that hardware store, grocery, and George’s. 


	4. Chapter 4

There were men working on the power lines strung along the road outside of Townsend Hardware, their truck parked diagonally across two spaces.  _ Prompt service, lack of courtesy _ , Ben thought with a roll of his eyes. He supposed quick service in such a small town should be a blessing. Some summers ago, at a house in Litchfield, the power wasn't restored for the better part of a week. Ben hurried to the door, hearing the little bell chime as he swung it open.

“Benjamin, was it? Welcome back!” 

The voice came from a colorful wall in the corner, where Samuel was restocking paint swatches. His face was bright and beaming, and for a moment Ben felt like he had been coming to this store all his life. “Hello, Samuel. Keeping cool?” Ben replied. He fought the urge to do something, anything, with his hands. They found their way folded across his chest. Samuel thumbed through a stack of swatches.

“As cool as we can be. Our old clunker of an air conditioner finally gave out, and I had  _ hoped _ to replace it with a system I've had my eye on for quite some time now. But it seems there are  _ other _ plans.” Samuel said, eyeing the multitude of fans pointed in every direction in the store. From behind one of the displays popped Robert, sweat glistening on the brow of his hard set face.

“If by  _ other plans  _ you mean going to the junk yard and picking up a second hand,  _ perfectly good, _ unit then yes. We can't afford to be flashy, father. We don't pull in the revenue Home Depot does.” Samuel stood before before one of the fans, fingers tucked in his collar to pull it loose.

“This is entirely my fault, Benjamin. You see, when Robbie was a boy I taught him the value of a dollar, and he's lorded it over me ever since.”  Ben laughed sweetly, helping save stack of paint swatches from being toppled over by Samuel’s moving about. “What can we do for you today, Benjamin?”

“I, uh, need a backup generator.” Ben said, looking around. Now that he was here, he wondered if maybe this was too small a store to buy such a thing, but Samuel nodded all the same.

“Those will be in the back. But I must warn you they are small. Maybe good for some things, but definitely not enough for that house of yours to keep lit in an outage.” 

“That's alright. I just need it for my fridge. I lost a whole thing of groceries in the black out, and I want to make sure I don't have to redo my shopping every time the lights go out.” Ben said. Robert poked around the display again, motioning for Ben to follow.

“Then we have a few you can choose from. Right this way.” The cramped aisles of the store felt even more claustrophobic with the heat, and Ben had the distinct feeling that if he moved any quicker than he was he would take the back off of Robert’s shoe. They squeezed their way past sanders, and a wall of electric drills, before turning to the end cap. On the bottom shelf were a few boxes, their tops covered in a layer of dust and plaster powder. 

“Anything you recommend?” Ben asked. Robert pointed at the box on the far left, and Ben crouched to wipe the dust clean off the top, revealing the fine typed information.

“It's moderately priced, and does a good job holding up. Your fridge shouldn't give it problems. Or the freezer for that matter. I take it you're not cooking much?” 

Ben laughed, wiping his dusty hand over his knee. “Not until I replace my stove. You said you were going to a junkyard to replace your AC. Any chance they have stoves and appliances?”

“Plenty. Though you may need to be more selective if you plan on flipping the house. Nothing too shabby.” Robert said. Here was something careful about his tone, and the way he held himself. It wasn't off putting, merely curious, as if he were taking Ben apart layer by layer to examine him.

“Is there someplace you feel I'd find something more suitable?” Ben asked. Robert pondered this a moment, all the while looking Ben over. This time his gaze lingered just a tad longer. Ah, Ben knew this look.

“There's a second hand shop on Lakeland. They have things that don't look as though they've been left by the railroad to rust.” Robert said. There was a scoff from the front of the store, breaking Robert’s attention from Ben. 

“The one instance you aren't counting coins!” Samuel called out. “And to think you don't even go out for a nice drink with company.” Ben stifled a smile as Robert rolled his eyes. 

“My father is well aware that this is a small town, and I have  _ narrow _ tastes in company.” He said, drawing out the word. His lips curled just a touch at the corners, and that was all Ben needed. Ben took the box, setting it down by his feet. 

“As do I.” He stood, dropping his voice just a tad. The store was empty, but the tone was habitual. “Any place I should steer clear of?” Robert shrugged, and his hands found their way into a careful clasp behind his back.

“There's a biker bar on the other end of town, but that's just common sense. Otherwise, the usual.” Robert paused, checking around the corner. “My father is suspiciously quiet. No doubt listening in to see if I want to socialize.” He threw a look over at Ben. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Ben heaved up the box, tucking his arms under it. Robert took it as cue to start walking back towards the register. “I have to head out anyway. I need to stop by at George's before I get back to work on the house.” That earned a curious turn from Robert, eyebrow raised.

“ George  _ Washington?”  _

Ben nodded. The generator was placed down on the counter with a thud, dust falling off onto the linoleum. Robert looked him over once more, and then turned on his heel to head back to the office.

“ _ Have fun.” _

* * *

Ben checked himself over in the mirror, his car parked on the gravel just outside George's workshop.  _ Have fun,  _ Robert had said. Meaning what, exactly? George was charming, and a bit of a flirt--but any artisan would speak sweetly if it meant a happy customer. It wasn't a good enough excuse to keep Ben from making some last minute adjustments in the mirror. He smoothed his hair back, only allowing a strand or two to fall over his eyes. He passed a hand over the stubble on his chin, looking for old razor bumps. A thumb was scrubbed over a patch of dirt on his cheekbone, smudged from his time in the hardware store. After about a minute, Ben braced himself for the heat, and exited the car.

Today the furnaces weren't blasting, most likely too hot to continue. He found George at the work table again, his tools splayed out across it as he worked on freeing some shapes from a sheet of turquoise glass. “Hello, Benjamin.” He said, eyes down and strong shoulders hunched. Ben stammered out a hello, approaching the table cautiously. George snapped off a rounded piece of glass with his pliers.

“Hey George. You said there were some wrought iron fixtures I needed to approve?” Ben asked. His voice sounded strained, but George made no notice of it. He kept his eyes to the glass, tracing a tool around an unseen shape until an etched triangle appeared. Ben watched with rapt curiosity.

“I do indeed. Just one moment as I grab the samples.” George placed the tool down, abandoning the triangle momentarily. He pulled a few sample pieces out of a drawer. Wrought iron frames and setting for the window. Some were plain, and sleek, while others evoked an antique or art nouveau feel, their beings twisted and embellished lavishly. “This is entirely up to you, of course, depending on your tastes. Some people use these as a way to make it match the house.” 

George picked up a sleek black one. “I use these in those new modern churches. Clean cut lines.” He then picked up a second, this one framed in twisted bronzed leaves. “And this tends to find its way into older homes. Victorians.Cottages. But it doesn't have to be the case. It's all your preference.” Ben looked his choices over carefully, his gaze lingering from the iron detailing to the color...to the strong hands holding them up for him. Ben felt a flush rise to his cheeks, and dropped his gaze.

“I like this one.” He said quickly. “The one that looks braided.” It was simple, elegant. Burnished bronze, three strands of it, woven tightly into a neat braid. George picked it up for a closer look, running his thumb along the bumpy edge of the trim. Ben’s gaze followed it, then down the line of the thumb to George's forearms, strong and dappled by fading burns. They looked old and pink, and never two the same shape. Some were tiny specks, while others ran across like dashed lines on a map. George noticed Ben’s close attention, and turned his arm for a better look.

“There's a steep learning curve for what I do. It's not always pretty.” He said. Ben took a step back, embarrassed at his rude and obvious curiosity. “Don't feel too bad. Everyone's got them. I'm sure you have a few battle scars from fixing up houses, right?” 

Ben laughed, and picked up the hem of his cargo shorts. From the knee to the inner thigh was a thin line, barely noticeable. “Wall collapsed on me once while I was trying to fix it up. I got caught with some debris.” George made a hissing sound, but pulled up the tight short sleeve over his shoulder, revealing a patch the size of quarter along the side.

“Prodded with the molten end of one of the rods.” Ben grimaced, but took a step closer. George chuckled. “You can't be afraid or else no work gets done, right?” Ben could feel George's eyes on him, and his cheeks heated uncomfortably.

“R-right.” The word hung uncomfortably in the heat, and Ben rocked back on his heels. “Though I have no idea how you manage to deal with how hot---” George quirked an eyebrow “h-how hot it is. You know. The heatwave, and your...your work.”  _ Goddammit _ . 

“You manage.” George said. His lips curled at the corners in a way Ben found almost predatory. George had his own way of picking men apart, and unlike Robert, it stoked a fire in Ben’s belly. The space between them tightened as George moved forward. “The little things make it more bearable. Short sleeves. Night hours. Seeing a finished project.” Ben's hands fumbled with themselves nervously, though his gaze fell to linger on George's lips. “That's what it's all about, right Benjamin? Putting in good work?”

“R-right…” There was something more Ben wanted to put in than work. Good  _ something _ was hard to come by. Ben hadn't had good something--real fucking  _ hot _ something--in years. George could be something. Give him something...anything…more than a little good work…

Ben felt as if his breath was pulled from him as George stepped back and returned to his work. His face, no doubt red as a beet, began to cool. “I do encourage you to stop by anytime.” George said, putting the sample irons away. “Not just when I have questions about your window. I've always been curious as to how one fixes up an old house, and you seem to have a keen eye.” Ben fought through the dry mouth to find a word more than “right”. 

“And your work here is beautiful. I’ll stop by more, if you’ll let me.”

“You're not a choir boy, so you're not a bother.” George quipped, a devilish grin on his face. “Though you do look wholesome.” Ben laughed.

“I used to sing in my father’s church. You know, until the puberty thing happened.”

“Of course, of course.” George’s eyes were back to his work, etching away at the glass. “And you’ll be ok today? You're awfully flushed.” 

Ben fished the car keys out of his shorts, jangling them in his hand.

“I'll manage.”

* * *

Manage Ben did. The routine came almost naturally after a few days, much to Ben’s relief. He rose with the sun, using the early morning for himself. With a new stove acquired at the second hand shop, breakfast became a constant; omelette, bacon, toast. Lists were picked at over his meal, prioritized and pinned to the cork board on the wall. Small cleanups and preparations were made. By noon Ben was on the road, spending the height of the heat in Home Depot or Townsend Hardware. And by 3, he was with George. 

George.

Ben couldn't help but feel a prickle under his skin at the thought of visiting the workshop. By week one he was craving the smell of the shop. By a week and a half, dreaming of the way the inside was a collage of painted light. And George. He wanted George. George, smiling nonchalantly, sweat making his tank top stick to his chest. George, whose strong hands would pull molten glass from the fire, and guide the tongs as it twisted and pulled into something beautiful. 

“Watch closely” George had said once, the fiery orange mass of molten glass sitting on the end of his punty as he rolled it back and forth across a smooth steel work table. It was a blob, thick and unrecognizable. George pulled it close, a pair of flat tongs in his thick fingers. He pulled and crimped, adding more goopy hot glass until Ben started to recognize the shape. Big, beautiful petals, lilting and sagging under the creeping weight of itself. And just as it seemed to look hopeless, George would turn it--perking up each piece until it looked like a flower plucked from the sun. George showed it to him once it was cooled, fresh from the annealing oven. Smooth white, with touches of pink. Full and beautiful, just like spring. 

“ _A_ _magnolia_ ” Ben said breathlessly, holding it cupped in his hands. George would only smile, and return to work. 

It wasn't long until Ben was back at home, shoveling debris into a wheelbarrow as he recounted the things he saw to Caleb. Vases and flowers, sculptures and windows; all made of glittering colored glass. All heavy and smooth in Ben’s hands. It took all his might not to gush about how effortlessly George handled them. How they were cradled gently in broad palms. How Ben wanted to place himself in those hands and be made beautiful. How he hadn't felt beautiful and wanted for a while. 

And by week two, it was all Ben could think about.

* * *

“Benjamin! You're early.” George chimed. Today it was a gray tank top, smudged with dirt and sweat--Ben’s favorite. Ben bit down on the inside of his cheek as he made his way to George through the shop. It was cooler today, the oven off and still. With the temperature outside creeping close to 100F, it wasn't a surprise. 

The table George normally sketched on was cluttered, and as Ben approached he could make out several little circles. They were each the size of his palm, and pieced together from cut colorful glass. They were framed simply, and attached to a thin braided rope. Stained glass mosaics. 

“Ornaments. I make them for the flea market. It gets people interested in my work.” George said. “But really, I use them for practicing new techniques.” Ben smiled, picking one up. It was shards of deep blue and green, studded with tiny geometric blossoms. Some were so small, Ben wondered how George managed to piece them together. George turned, catching sight of Ben fawning over the piece. “You like it?”

“I love it. It's so delicate looking.” Ben said. He traced a finger over the cream colored blossoms, admiring each delicate point of their petals. George scratched out a few lines on a yellow note pad.

“You should keep it.” 

Ben felt his heart leap from his chest, and a sense of guilt wash over him. “Oh- I couldn't. You need to sell these--” He moved to place the ornament down, only to have two hands clasp over his. Warm, rough hands. Ben could feel the work callouses as George brushed his thumb tenderly against his skin. 

“Benjamin, please.” George grasped the glass, prying it out of Ben’s tightly clasped hands. “May I?” Ben let go, embarrassment painting his cheeks. The ornament was held up to the light, and George sighed with dissatisfaction. “Do you see those bubbles?” Looking into the glass Ben could see tiny bubbles, a clustered stream of them streaking through the glass like air in a fish tank. 

“Those are seed bubbles.” George said. “Flaws. Things that would mar the look of my windows. But they are perfect for practice, and for crafts to sell at the flea market. Mostly bought by kids for their rooms or mother’s day gifts.” He placed the ornament back in Ben’s hands. “Please, take it.” It was smooth beneath his fingers, and Ben ran a thumb over the small flowers dotting the ornament. 

“I...have to pay you something.” Ben said. His words felt like sand in his mouth; dry, coating his tongue so awkwardly that he almost croaked as George stepped closer. Ben’s eyes darted from chest, to arm, to ornament, before finally gathering courage to look George in the eye. There was something playful about the way George smiled, and he way he leaned on one hip to edge closer to Ben. 

“Drinks then.” 

Ben's mind drew blanks, and he blinked stupidly. 

“Drinks?” George nodded, arms now crossed over his chest, fingers drumming against the swell of his bicep almost teasingly. 

“That piece would sell for $20 or so. Sounds like a few drinks at happy hour. You and me.” George said. Drinks...that sounded good. Really good. Casual. Someplace Ben could smile and talk to George. A cozy bar where hands would find thighs, and follow the seam up,up,up…

“ _ Now? _ ” It came out as a breathless hiss, and drew up the corners of George’s lips so wickedly Ben thought he may faint.

“Unfortunately no, I'm doing prep work for oven pieces. But tomorrow...6pm. Come thirsty.” Ben nodded, and swallowed thickly.  _ He would be.  _ Looking for some escape from the now building heat in his gut, Ben scuffed his boot against the floor sheepishly, rolling gravel out from the rubber soles. It crunched and cracked just enough for him to find his tongue again. 

“6 it is.” Ben cradled the ornament in his palms, thumbs tracing it with utmost care and adoration. “And thank you, George. This is beautiful.” George's eyes softened, a soft pink tinge of his own coloring his cheeks. Perhaps it was a wave of convenient flush, stuck from hours in a hot, sweaty workshop; but it was not there before. Gentle pink otherwise masked by the shards of swirling, colorful light seeping through the open window. It was endearing. Exciting. 

“Thank me tomorrow.” George said. “And I’ll show you something beautiful.”

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Ben refreshed his email for the twentieth time, feeling his gut swirl in unison with the buffering icon. It was a stupid fear that had hit him as soon as he took his shower, getting ready for drinks with George. A sickly panic as the reality of his situation set in. It was drinks with someone  _ other _ than Nate. Nate, who until pretty recently was the only man he’d seriously been with. 

Ben scoffed, and flicked his thumb over the screen again, forcing the inbox to reload again. This was stupid. It was just  _ drinks.  _ Nothing major, nothing serious. The last email he sent filled the screen, lonely and unanswered.

[ _ Hey, it's been a while. How’s the summer program? _ ] 

The summer reading program at Nate’s school was always a cause of frustration. Ben could think of countless walls torn down as Nate redirected his anger from the DOE. But he had sent that hours ago, and Nate was certainly home by now. It was always a half day. Which meant Nate was ignoring him. Or he was  _ out _ ….with  _ someone.  _ Ben closed the app, lips pinched into a tight frown. It didn't matter. He was going out too. And with  _ George.  _ Hot, sweaty, right out of a supermarket romance novel George. A shiver of excitement ran up his spine as he imagined the two of them someplace close and hot, save only for the ice in their glass. Yeah. Nate could eat it. 

Ben almost ate those words as his phone buzzed to life.  _ Nate! Oh god, Nate. _ Ben whirled around to the spot where he left his phone. There was no way he could manage a small chat with him before heading out to see George. Numbly, Ben groped for the phone, flipping it over. His heart eased out of his throat as Caleb’s bright sunny face filled the screen. 

“Hey Caleb.”

“Benny boy! Ready for tonight?” Caleb laughed heartily, and for a moment Ben felt 17 again, giddily passing a bottle and gossip between them. Ben smiled bashfully, and rubbed the still damp skin on the back of his neck. 

“I, uh, don't know. This is--” he laughed breathlessly as the heat reached his cheeks. “This is certainty something new.” Ben moved to the closet, thumbing through the shirts hug up in a neat row. From the phone on the bed. Caleb made a high noise, teasing him. 

“ _ Ooooh,  _ I know that look, Tallboy. Yer thinking of endin’ tonight on a good note. Or several, eh?” He took a swig of beer from a can and sat back in his deck chair. “Yer in for a good time. Virginia sounds like real truckin’ and a fuckin’ territory.” Ben whirled around on his heel, face blanched.

“Excuse me,  _ what?” _

Caleb winked, taking another good long sip, savoring the moment to draw out the sickly panic brewing in Ben’s gut. “He's going to fuck you in his truck.”

“ _ No”  _

“Does he own a truck?” Ben paused, hands resting on his hips. “ _ Ben?” _ Ben gnawed at his lower lip, just a moment, before exhaling with a huff. 

“Yeah, he's got a truck. But he's delivering  _ windows.  _ Is he supposed to take a mini--”

“He's going to fuck you in the truck.” 

Ben yanked a dark grey shirt off the rod, the wooden hanger swinging back and forth wildly. “Shut up, Caleb.” Ben pulled the shirt over his shoulders, noticing immediately how it pulled a tad too tight across his chest. “Fuck, I think it shrunk. And this was the only semi good one I had. The rest are all covered in plaster or year old paint.” He sighed. 

“Show me, Tallboy. I'm lookin’ at the ceiling. Nice plaster job, by the way, it's lookin’ good.” Ben propped the phone up on the bed, nestled gently against a pillow. He took a few steps back until he was in frame, and pulled at the shirt. It was indeed too tight. Stretched thin in the chest, short sleeves hugging his bicep snugly, Ben felt like a gawky kid in last year’s outgrown clothes instead of an adult man on a date.

“I mean, Caleb,  _ look. _ ” Ben said, lifting his arms above his head, raising the shirt enough to bare a few inches of stomach. “This is ridiculous.” The longer he fussed, the more dread Ben felt about tonight. He's have to go out in  _ this.  _ Sit across from George, constantly pulling and tugging at this shirt, no doubt putting George off by it. He'd reek of insecurity. The night would be one drink (already too polite) and then George would never call him again. All because Ben didn't read the stupid tag on the stupid shirt---

“Oi! Tallboy! Don't get yourself in a knot over this, eh? Tight is good.  _ Really good.  _ I'm sure ol’ Georgie wants you to flaunt what you've got. He can't be wearin’ those tank tops solely to keep cool either.” Caleb chided. Ben smoothed the shirt down with sweaty palms, trying hard to steady his breathing. 

“Is this...is this a good idea?”

Caleb’s face softened with concern, and he picked up his end of the phone to bring the camera close. “Hey, Benny, yeah. I seen how tough it's been for you these past few months. An’ it's just drinks. You like him, take it further. If not, no big deal. Despite what Nate might have told you, this is normal. Go out and have  _ fun. _ ”

Ben let out a shuddered breath, heart still racing in his chest. “Fun...fun. I can do fun.” The word sounded silly with the added weight to it, but Ben repeated it a few times more. “Fun. Yeah...ok. Ok. This is fun.” Caleb smiled, glancing down at the time.

“Atta boy, Ben. Don't be late.” 

* * *

 

The car crunched to a halt on the gravel outside George’s workshop, the heat of the day still strong enough to test the limits of Ben’s deodorant. With the car fan on full blast, Ben pulled the collar of his polo shirt open, letting cold air wick away the nervous sweat he'd broken into. In the mirror he checked himself once more. His face was clean shaven, a choice he now second guessed as he dragged his thumb over the smooth skin. He looked young. Boyish even. 

Running his hands through his hair helped a little, making him look less like the choir boys George chased from his workshop. He smiled a few times in the mirror, checking his teeth, noting how his cheeks dimpled. A mint was hastily gnawed on as Ben applied a roll on cologne to his pulse points; both wrists, behind the ear, and on the soft sensitive juncture of his neck. The sultry scent of jasmine filled the car. This was it. This was as good as he was going to get. Ben pulled the key out of the ignition and stepped out of the car. 

A glance at his phone confirmed the time was 6:02pm; right on time. But as Ben entered the shop he checked again, a little thrown by the scene inside. The place was dim, curtains drawn to keep the sun out, though the heat was thick and heavy. The ovens had been on, but there was no orange glow from the back of the shop. Instead, the work tables were covered in tools, the ovens behind them dark, but still shimmering heat. And George--tall, irresistible George-- stood hunched over a table. His skin glinted in the sunlight trickling through the one open window, and as Ben drew near he could see that George hadn't lied about spending the day in front of the oven. He was  _ drenched.  _ His grey tank top was dark with sweat, and a few locks of deep auburn hair lay plastered to his brow. Ben fumbled with his phone a third time, the display now reading 6:05.

“George? I, uh...are we still on for drinks?” Ben said, trying hard not to sound meek or desperate. His pants felt rather tight, but when didn't they? Especially when George was so rumpled and rugged. It was then that George looked up, a little startled. 

“Benjamin! Oh, I'm sorry. I meant to stop this a half hour ago and clean up.” He set down a pair of pliers. “I found some flaws I needed to work around and lost track of time.” Ben let out a little laugh, relieved. 

“Oh that's…that's fine. If you'd like I can go wait in the car while you run to your house?” 

“No need. I have everything I need right here.” He said, motioning for Ben to follow. They walked past the ovens, around to a private space blocked off from public view. It was a little living nook, outfitted with whatever an artist might need for the days he could not leave his shop. There was an old futon, it's back pressed to the wall so that it faced a small kitchenette. Ben could smell stale coffee, and spied a microwaveable meal box in the small trash can beside the counter. 

Adjacent to that were two cubicles. One had a solid door, the other a flimsy curtain. George reached behind the curtain, twisting something unseen until the hissing sound of water filled Ben’s ears. A shower. “Take a seat, I’ll only be a few minutes.” George said, his tone nonchalant. 

It didn't fully dawn on Ben what was happening until the hem of George's shirt was peeled up and over his head. The shirt hit the floor and Ben’s gaze landed on the broad chest he had spent nights drooling over. He wasn't far off. Sparse hair dappled his chest, leaving only a trickle down to the soft curve of his stomach. Ben felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and hurriedly sat on the futon. A shirt was a shirt, but surely George didn't intend to--  _ he did. He did he did he did.  _ Ben’s heart popped in unison with the button of George's fly, eyes unable to look away as the zipper undid and George shimmied out of jeans and boxers. Cut hips, muscular thighs, and something much more enticing between them. Ben’s mouth went dry as the pants were kicked aside, George winking playfully as he hopped into the shower. “Five minutes. I promise.” 

Nothing could be heard for some time but the splashing of water, and the sound of blood pounding in Ben’s ears. At some point Ben became aware of the pillow he had pulled into his lap in some crude attempt to hide his erection, but his eyes had done plenty of leering. Not that George tried to hide anything. He didn't have anything to be ashamed of. Not one...thing… 

Ben was still in half a trance when George popped back out, towel around his waist, to grab a fresh set of clothes off the coffee table. He disappeared into the bathroom stall moments after; apparently getting dressed wasn't nearly as fun to share as stripping down. When George emerged, it was in dark jeans and a navy shirt. This one, like Ben’s, was tight and cleaner looking than the rest. Ben bit his lip coyly, and rose to his feet.

“All ready?” 

“Absolutely.” George smiled. “We’ll take my car. I know a place.” He grabbed his keys off the counter and made his way towards the door, Ben hot on his heels. As eager as Ben was to start the evening, he had already begun to think of the perfect ending.

* * *

Not far from Main Street was a little section George had mentioned as downtown. But where Ben was used to bustling downtowns with huge buildings, this was more of a restaurant district. Small cafes and bars lined the brick street, tables spilling out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, their patrons shielded by large multicolored awnings. 

Under a red and blue canopy, strung up with lights, was a beer garden. The place was nice. Nicer than Ben had expected for a small town. Craft beers, appetizers, some burgers or sandwiches. A local band played out front, but George guided him gently towards the rear; a hand on his back to help nudge Ben through the thick crowd of customers. They took a table, the laminated menu strip waving back and forth in the breeze. Ben noted that the table George picked was small, and wedged into a corner of the garden. He didn't mind, as it gave him a reason to press his leg against George's under the table. 

“So, what's good here?” Ben asked, looking down the list of cocktails. It was happy hour, and the prices were dropped by half on all drinks. George mulled the question over before pointing to the menu. 

“If you're looking for beer, it's this one. But this place has great mojitos.” He nodded his head towards a young  couple who had obviously had a few, several tall glasses drained of all but mint and ice littered their table. “And they make them strong.” Ben glanced at them, watching how they pressed close, tipsy breath mingling as they whispered to one another. He felt his leg brush against George's, almost absent mindedly at the thought of contact. And Ben felt George extend his leg, returning said contact.

“I'll have that.” Ben said in a rush. George waved the waitress over and ordered two mojitos, and fries to share. Ben rested his arm on the table, admiring the sounds of the band drifting through the air, gaze landing casually on George. He looked relaxed; nothing like the man wearing a pinched frown he so often saw in the workshop.Shoulders back, thick fingers tracing shapes in the condensation of his water glass, George looked regal. Ben set upright in his chair, correcting his posture. 

“So Benjamin, how’s that house coming along?” George said. “Last we spoke you were plastering.” Ben took a sip of water, chasing the unforgiving dryness that had plagued his mouth since George stripped in front of him.

“It's something, that's for sure.” Ben said. George leaned in, curiosity in his eyes, and Ben felt himself relax into the moment. “I've finished the master bedroom. Just made sense with me having to use it. Uh, the top floor still needs work, but I've sanded down some warped wood. I think I can avoid having to replace it entirely.” The mojitos came, and Ben took the first sip deeply, relishing the burn of the rum. 

“That  _ is _ something. Are you sure you don't need a crew?” George said, sipping his drink. Ben sighed. In reality, yeah, he could definitely use a crew. An extra set of hands would be a godsend. But he had poured way more than the house was worth into the initial buy, and with every fix he found five more problems. 

“It's...complicated. To be honest, unless I start finding some sure fire fixes, I might not make the deadline.” George raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Ben cleared his throat, rolling the cool glass between his palms. “It means I might have to come down on weekends and holidays to continue.” Excitement sparked behind George's eyes, and Ben felt his cheeks tingle. Perhaps George didn't want to see him go. Perhaps this summer fling, or whatever this might turn into, could linger into cuffing season. 

“Will that be hard to do?” George asked. His eyes darted to Ben’s lips, and Ben licked at them nervously. “What with the school year going on?” Ben nodded.

“Annoying, for sure. But I think by then it might be little projects, and I can definitely handle that.” George let out a little  _ oh _ , his knees bumping into Ben’s beneath the table. Not just bumping; nudging. Wedging his trembling knees apart to slot one strong leg between them. Ben felt himself twitch at the contact. 

“ _ I bet you can.”  _

Ben drank deeply. 

The rum loosened his tongue, and the conversation. The first mojito was spent tittering on about work. The house, the window, the panes of glass Ben saw laid out in neat rows in George's workshop. The second came as their basket of fries dwindled to a few charred crumbs. The third and fourth sipped between hushed giggles, George pulling his chair up next to Ben’s to lean in close. 

Ben tipped his glass back, hardly feeling the burn anymore. This was the last of his fourth, and he was eyeing George's second. George had to  _ drive,  _ after all. And Ben felt comfortable enough to let go. It shooed away some dark cloud that had followed him for months. All those stormy evenings spent rumbling at Nate breaking, his gloomy summer starting to look a little sunny. Sunny, and warm, kissing rich auburn hair before it slipped below the horizon, tempting Ben to slip as well. 

His fifth was halfway done when a hand found his knee, and Ben opened his legs invitingly. The first band had stepped down, a new one taking the stage. They played a song Ben loved, but didn't quite know. Its thrumming bass line got under his skin,coursing through his veins as the hand on his knee slowly moved to his thigh. George's lips were at his ear, and Ben could hear a few words rumbled into his hair. 

“ _ Let’s get out of here” _

George's arm found his, helping Ben to his feet as he stumbled and laughed over the music. He wasn't drunk, at least not in the physical sense. Every bit of him was drinking in George. His smile. The tight fit of his shirt. The way he laughed when Ben made a joke. It was perfect. This was it. Summer love in all the glory Ben had been too shy to seize these past few years. They left the bar the way they came, blurry fairy lights swinging against a hazy purple sky. 

Ben didn't have to wait long for contact. Without the many eyes of bar flies, George could be bolder. His palm traced the front of Ben’s jeans, kneading into the bulge it found there. Ben groaned, legs shifting apart. “Where are we going?” Ben giggled, lacing his hand in George's. George squeezed his hand back playfully. 

“To your place. I wouldn't be a good date if I didn't bring you home safe and sound.” George said. The car turned down a road, and Ben squinted out the window. “Just let me know which way.” Road signs rolled past, green and blurry. 

“Yeah it's this way. Head to Oak. It's the very last house.” The hand on his pants resumed its work, undoing his fly. “ _ Oh god” _ George chuckled.

“You don't do this often do you, Benjamin?” Ben shook his head, grunting as George coaxed his cock out of his jeans. His hand was strong, a little work roughed in a way that made Ben shiver as it dragged up the length of him. George thumbed over the head of his cock teasingly, turning down onto Oak. “This way?” Ben whined a response, his hips moving involuntarily. 

Everything seemed to melt away. Ben leaned hard against the back of the seat, panting and searching for more contact. He hardly noticed pulling up into the driveway of his house. Didn't catch the ignition being turned off. Nothing registered until the rest of George could lean over and pay him more attention. 

George nipped at his throat, teeth dragging torturously slow as he kissed and sucked along Ben’s jaw. His hand worked faster, with more enthusiasm now that he and Ben were alone. Ben pulled at the front of George’s shirt, lips clumsily meeting. George took his time, kissing him slowly, only breaking when Ben pulled back for air. “ _ You…” _ Ben breathed “... _ you stripped on purpose, didn't you _ .” George laughed, closing in for another kiss. He tasted of rum, and smelled of faint cologne. Ben smiled, breaking their kiss. “ _ Unfair” _

“I had to know if you were interested” George growled. His hand left Ben’s cock, groping something between the passenger seat and door. Ben gasped as the back of his chair fell into recline, George leaning further over him. “And you looked  _ very _ interested.” Ben bit his lip, his fingers finding their way into George's hair. A little twist and pull, and George was groaning into each kiss he left on his neck. 

“ _ God, I’m going to nail you to this seat.” _ Ben shuddered, pulling George atop him. It took some clambering, with George trying to move himself over the middle console without slamming his leg into the wheel. It was humorous, and a little charming, but sparked an unwanted thought in his brain.’  _ He's going to fuck you in his truck’  _ Ben swore internally. Goddamn, Caleb was not going to get him on this one. Ben pressed his hands to George’s chest.

“Not here.  _ Inside. _ ” He kissed George as he rose up from the seat. “More room.” Ben fumbled for the door, the two of them spilling out of the car and onto the driveway. He was momentarily glad for the privacy of this old house, laughing loudly into the night, cock still out of his pants as George helped him off the concrete. The keys missed the lock three times before Ben’s hand steadied enough to open it, and then the real fun began. 

Ben felt his shirt snag his ears as it was pulled over his head, tossed at the base of the stairs. They climbed them sloppily, George making a passing comment about how beautifully the house was turning out. Ben silenced it with another kiss as the reached the second floor. The floor left his feet as George hoisted him up, pushing open the door to his bedroom. “Thank god you chose right. Or else we’d be fucking on unsanded floors.” George dropped Ben to the mattress, working on pulling his jeans off. 

“Next time, then.” He smirked. 

From his spot on the bed Ben watched as George stripped, tossing his things to the floor. Ben wiggled out of his boxers just as George peeled the last of his things off. It was the second time tonight Ben had seen him naked, but no less exciting. In fact, he had time to admire him in all his glory. The broad chest, strong thighs, and now a thick, hard cock between them. Oh yes. Nate could  _ eat it.  _ This is what Ben wanted. What he really  _ truly _ wanted. Summer flings. Feeling adored and wanted.  _ God,  _ did he want to feel wanted. And that's exactly what George did. On top of him, hands pinning his to the bed, hips grinding down on him. Sucking at his throat, whispering every guttural thought that passed through his mind. Ben felt alive. He felt so very very alive. 

George came with a groan, painting Ben’s stomach with release. Ben wasn't far behind, shuddering through his own orgasm as the room began to stop spinning. And soon it was just their breathing. Hot, panting breaths that didn't move in the humid room. George planted a kiss on Ben’s brow.

“You know, I have a spare AC. I can install it if you want.” Ben laughed breathlessly, closing his eyes.

“That's the sexiest thing you've said so far.” 

* * *

The next week was bliss. One night’s stay became two; and with the addition of an AC, George was stopping by more frequently. He would come to help Ben out. Hauling debris, dropping off supplies. Things Ben needed as he started his evening work on the house. Of course, the work went faster with the promise of a good fuck at the end of the night, and George was there to deliver. There wasn't a night Ben wasn't on his knees or on all fours, sweating and writhing as George thrust into him. 

George couldn't always stay the night, his own work also taking up odd hours. But it worked. Things just  _ clicked.  _ A good day’s work, some light hearted conversation, and a deep dicking to keep Ben wanting more. And more sometimes meant lingering with George a little longer. 

“Come home with me tonight.” Ben mumbled into George's chest, the sound of his pulse slowing as they basked in the afterglow of another romp in George's workshop. The futon had been unfolded, and Ben had thoroughly broken in the sheets; but the place was hot and stuffy, and Ben hoped to coax George back to his place for the night. George groaned, his head turned towards the open workshop.

“Can't. Pastor Earnings has been hounding me for a nativity piece. I have to finish it this week.” He said. “And I've spent much too long working on another fine piece of--” Ben shoved the heel of his palm playfully into George's face. “-- _ Glass” _

“Mhm, glass.  _ Sure _ .” 

George draped an arm over Ben, tracing soft shapes on his hip. “What about you? I can set up a fan here or put you in the big bed in my house.” Ben thought about it, almost tempted. But this would be the second day he didn't return home, and the work was piling up. 

“I can't either. Tonight I finish the upstairs floors, and then the garden.” George turned, his face screwed with confusion.

“The yard? In the dark?” 

“No, during the day time. The whole place looks wild. I just want to mow the grass and maybe do some weeding. Damn things are waist high.” George grunted, lifting himself with a creak on the futon.

“Just be careful. If the heat doesn't get you, the ticks will.” Ben stretched, rolling out of bed to gather his clothes.

“I’ll stop by after?” Ben asked. He was hesitant to admit it, but the comfort he found sleeping next to George had begun to grow on him. A warm body and steady breathing in an otherwise deafeningly quiet night was a godsend. He felt less lonely. Less isolated and vulnerable. And by the soft look of affection George returned, Ben felt he wasn't the only one. 

“Of course. I'll see you then.”

* * *

The sun had just barely come up, dipping the backyard in rosy light. Dew glittered on the tall grass like big fat jewels, soaking the Ben’s pants to the knee as he waded through it. It was a sea of wild green, and the longer Ben looked at it, the more he ached for it to be over. Yard work was never his favorite thing. That was Nate’s job. Raking leaves, bagging them, making sure the grass was mowed in neat little lines. The whole thing bored him to tears. But, just as he had spruced up the front yard, the back was in desperate need of care. Nobody would buy the place if he left it looking like a breeding ground for ticks. 

The lawnmower hummed, Ben’s hands on the little steering wheel as he made his way in tidy rows. Up, down, up, down. Certain turns he took too soon. He'd have to go back with a push mower. Or a scythe, by the looks of it. Bagging the grass was just as back breaking, the heat creeping ever upwards with the sun. God, what he wouldn't do to be nice and cozy in George’s workshop. Hot and sticky, but mostly unclothed and sprawled out in the privacy of his back studio. Ben tossed the last heaping trash bag aside, and eyed his weeder. Just the weeds creeping up the side of the house. That way, maybe, he can call in some house painters. 

He started at the side of the house, slowly gnawing through the stiff weeds creeping up the boards. The heat was  _ godawful. _ Sweat trickled freely down his back, and not even unsticking his shirt relieved it. Ben was just about to call it quits and head inside for a shower when he smelled it. Something putrid. 

Ben turned off the weed whacker, leaning it against the side of the house. He sniffed the air curiously, losing the scent for just a moment before it wafted his way again. A few steps and the smell became stronger. Something died. Probably a raccoon or possum. Ben had found a few digging through his trash a few nights prior. He thought he had chased them away, but perhaps one ate a bit of food scraps tainted by cleaning rags, and got sick. Ben pulled a spare bag from his work belt. Wherever it was, he just wanted it gone. 

The smell, to Ben’s dismay, was coming from beneath the back porch. The lattice there was rotted, and Ben groaned loudly. Just great. Some poor animal got sick, crawled under the tightest spot in the yard, and died. It was cool and dark there, but the heat would eventually turn its little body to mush, and Ben couldn't have the stench if he wanted to start showing the house. He got to his knees, crawling towards the rotted wood lattice beneath the stairs. The smell was so strong it stung his eyes. Not wanting to delay this for even gloves, Ben tucked his hand inside the black trash bag and began to grope around. He'd find it. Hopefully without having to physically crawl into the hidey hole. 

Something crunched and squashed beneath the bare hand Ben used to steady himself. Lifting his palm, he could make out the black and orange of a flattened beetle. It was fat and juicy. More like it crawled out from under the lattice where Ben was disturbing their meal. Ben was never a bug person, and the thought of having a beetle infestation was enough to keep him digging for their food source. Finally, his hand touched a soft object, and he pulled.

What came out wasn't the furry remains of a raccoon or possum . It was another black trash bag, similar to the one he wore on his right hand. It was punctured and torn, and beetles poked their little legs out and they clambered to safety. Ben, more than curious, tugged the back out of the stairs. It was heavy and long , and putrid, making Ben’s eyes water. Ben grunted, using both hands now to pull the object out, and in doing so snagged the flimsy bag on the wood, ripping it open. 

Reddish brown and yellow sludge spilt out of it like a blister, soaking Ben’s shirt and hands. It was gut wrenching, and Ben felt the vomit rise in his throat as the bag fully opened, and some semblance of a shape tumbled out. It's fingers landed in Ben’s lap, arm extending to the bag where no body remained attached, and something did finally rise up among the bile and horror climbing in his throat.

Ben screamed. 


	6. Chapter 6

_ 911 Emergency Call placed from 54 Oak, 11:34am _

[Dispatcher]: 911, what is your emergency?

[Tallmadge]: ...ody! It's dead! Oh  _ god _ \--

[Dispatcher]: Sir, did you say there's a body?

[Tallmadge]: (sobbing) an arm! It's in pieces  _ help me please- _ \--(unintelligible) it's everywhere--

[Dispatcher]: The body is dismembered? Sir, can you give me your address?

[Tallmadge]: it's...oh god  _ fuck _ ….(wretching) (sobbing/screaming)

[Dispatcher]: Sir, I'm going to need that address to send first response. One more time

[Tallmadge]: 54 Oak.  _ Please hurry _ .

__

* * *

When Ben called 911 he wasn't quite sure. After the bag split, and someone fell out, he didn't remember much. There were lights, sirens, voices. Through his tears he could see gray lifeless fingers, and then fresh pink ones waving before his face. He was yanked from the yard, EMTs descending on him, pulling his blood soaked clothes from him in the back of an ambulance to inspect for wounds. Ben was  _ fine.  _ He tried to tell them that the blood wasn't his, but his mouth ran dry as they waved lights before his eyes and slapped a blood pressure band on his arm. Everything was so tight. His chest, his arm, every muscle in his body screaming for some flight or fight response to kick in. By the time the EMTs were done, Ben was wrapped in a shock blanket, his yard a swarm of first responders. 

“He's over here.” 

A pair of creased navy trousers blocked the patchy grass in front of Ben’s face, and soon a shiny badge was slipped into his line of vision. Ben could make out the insignia of the local police department, but not the name as it was slipped back up towards the man’s jacket. 

“Benjamin Tallmadge, I am Detective Gates. Is this your home?” His tone was biting, and Ben trembled as he lifted his gaze to meet him. He was an older, sour looking man, his face screwed against the blazing noon sun. “I asked you a question, sir.” 

“Yes.” Ben croaked. “This...this is mine…” Behind Gates the swarm of responders shifted, biohazard bags being carried out with gloved hands. One of the bags looked  _ soupy.  _ Ben felt fat tears roll down his cheek. “ _ Oh my god… _ ” Gates glanced over his shoulder, no doubt catching a whiff of the putrid scent wafting over from the porch. 

“Mr. Tallmadge, I’m going to need you to come down to the station for questioning.” Ben nodded, his mind trying to claw through the numbness to wrap itself around his situation. This wasn't an arrest. But it could turn into one. And then what? Prison? Life for buying an unfortunate house because he didn't want to date the same man the rest of his life? It was all Ben could do not to crumple as he was guided to a black and white, pushed into the back seat and closed in. 

The house rolled away, red and blue lights dissolving into a twinkling haze as they headed into town. Ben rubbed his hands on his knees, wiping sweat on the soft clean fabric of his loaned sweatpants. His jeans were in an evidence bag, along with the rest of his clothes doused in liquid corpse. The spots behind his eyes were ghosts of crime scene photos taken of him, it's flash blinding even now as they turned off Main Street and towards the police station. 

They turned into the parking lot of a whitewashed building with cracked blue trim. A few uniformed officers meandered outside, some smoking or finishing their coffee. The black and white bumper to a stop, and Detective Gates heaved himself out of the car. Ben listened to the dinging of the car door as he waited to be let out of the back. A stray tear rolled down his cheek, and Ben quickly wiped it on the back of his sleeve.  _ Not here. Don't break down again out here.  _ It was a lie, and Ben knew it, but he'd rather not blubber his way into the police station. The door clicked open, Gates extending a hand to help Ben up, and the two marched past curious eyes and into the station. 

The interrogation room was small and dim, crammed at the end of a hallway. It was bare bones, just as you would expect. A table. Two chairs. Flickering fluorescent lights. The table was scratched and scuffed from where bored culprits carved into the wood. You could tell by how clustered the carvings were that they were all handcuffed when they did so. But Ben was not, and as he slid into his chair he bumped his knee hard on the cuff bar attached to the table. 

“Careful. Those things hurt” Gates said. Ben rubbed his knee sheepishly. On their way in Gates had grabbed a yellow legal pad and pen, which now sat between the two of them on the table. Ben’s stomach twisted as his eyes followed the thin ruled lines.Just how much would fill the page? Enough to spare him? Damn him? 

Gates cleared his throat. “Now then, you're new to town. I don't remember seeing you before.” There wasn't anything accusatory about the statement, and Ben felt the knot in his stomach unwind. 

“No sir. I moved in a few weeks ago for the summer.” Ben said. Gates jotted a few words down, his pen scratching impossibly loud. Perhaps on purpose. 

“A few weeks? You have a move in date?” 

“July 1st.”

The date was scratched down, and Gates sighed. “Ok Mr.Tallmadge, this is where I ask you to go back to the beginning. I need all the information: you, when you moved, what you do, how you found it. It's in your best interest to remember everything. And I mean  _ everything. _ Murders don't happen much around here, and we don't want to waste time on any folks who aren't on our list.” Ben shifted in his seat, and cleared his throat. 

“I,uh, I’m a college professor in Connecticut. Over my summers I flip old houses for extra money. I bought this house at the end of June, and moved down to live in and fix it up July 1st.” Gates leaned back in his chair. 

“So you visited back in June before officially moving.” Ben's gut twisted. This was already looking bad for him. 

“No, I bought the house blind based on the pictures on the real estate listing.” Gates gave him an incredulous look, and Ben fumbled to clarify. “Normally I come see the house first, but me and my partner--my….uh,  _ ex,  _ had a falling out. I just wanted space so I bought the house in a rush.” 

“Partner’s name?”

“Nathan Hale. He's back in Connecticut and hasn't had contact with me.” Gates continued his notes, already looking tired by the situation. Ben prayed this wouldn't drag Nate down too. All he needed was to ruin both their lives with his dumb impulse purchase. 

“Messy break up, then. Is there anyone who can confirm your unusual move in situation?” 

“Abigail Freeman. She works at Virginia Living Realtors. She was the agent I worked with, and she was there to give me the tour when I moved in.” Gates mumbled the name as he wrote it down. 

The next few questions got right to the point. Ben went over in detail his account of finding the body. He described as much of the scene as he could, despite the bile rising in his throat. By the end Gates had almost a full page front and back, and at least two hours had gone by. It was hard to tell in the windowless room, but every so often Ben could catch a glimpse of the watch on Gates’ wrist. The minute hand seemed to jump in twenty minute intervals, and Ben's stomach panged with hunger. Gates pushed his chair out collecting up his things.

“Mr. Tallmadge, we’re going to be here longer than expected. Can I bring you something to eat?” Ben nodded, agreeing to whatever it was Gates offered him. It was probably a sandwich. It didn't really matter. Whatever Ben would eat today would permanently be associated with the most horrific thing he'd ever seen. The door closed and Ben crumpled, head on the table as hot tears soaked his sleeves. God this was  _ awful. _ He was such an idiot for even coming here. The house is worthless. It was worthless before they found a fucking body. Who knows how long the csi guys would have his house under yellow tape. It would hold up construction. Paint his home as the murder house, and boy won't that ruin its resale. Ben doesn't even have anywhere to  _ stay. _ George's perhaps, but George was a fling. Their relationship was all fun and he wouldn't want some snot nosed kid crying all summer because of this. It's ugly and broken and so embarrassing. And  _ Nate.  _ He'd have to tell Nate….

The door clicked open and another officer walked in. This was was a woman; tall, and trim, with a headful of ashy blonde hair pulled back into a sleek bun. In her hand was a paper plate, and a water bottle was tucked under her arm. Her badge read  _ Livingston.  _

“It's ham and swiss.” She said placing the plate down. It was the most pathetic sandwich Ben had ever seen-- and he ate school lunches growing up. Still, not wanting to be rude, Ben picked the sandwich up by its crumbling crust and took a bite. It was dry through and through; tasteless ham, near plastic cheese, and stale bread stuck to the roof of his mouth. It took considerable effort to chew and swallow, no doubt making him look like an idiot. The officer-- Livingston-- cracked open the water bottle and handed it to Ben.

“Yeah, it's awful isn't it? I guess Gates was too lazy to order out.” Ben chugged the bottle, the heat and stress of the day catching up to him. Livingston watched on with mild amusement as the bottle crinkled loudly. “I guess he didn't offer you water either. Figures. I'm Sarah, by the way.” 

“Ben.” 

“So I've heard. Not many grisly murders happen around here. You've got the whole station abuzz. Everyone thinks they're on some cop show, all their egos are inflated.” She swatted some crumbs off the table, and Ben chewed his sandwich uneasily. 

“How much longer will I be here?” He asked meekly. He didn't want to sound eager to leave, but by now the hours were starting to take their toll, and he wanted to break down somewhere a little more private. Someplace where cops wouldn't be looking in through a two way mirror gauging if this out-of-town gay boy was making corpse stew under his porch. Sarah shrugged.

“Last I saw the M.E. came in with a report. Nice and speedy since all they normally deal with are car accidents. Detective Gates is looking it over and will probably have follow up questions.” By now the sandwich was all crust, and though Ben knew he should finish it there was not enough water in the world to wash it down. The last of the ham and cheese slid down his throat in a thick lump; hardly satisfying. Sarah picked the paper plate up, quickly collecting the rest of the table crumbs onto it before balancing the empty water bottle atop it. “Anyway, I wish you luck. No offense but you look like shit.” 

“None taken. Thanks for the food, officer.” 

Sarah slipped out of the room, quietly sealing Ben back into his pit of isolation. It wouldn't be much longer now. The medical examiner took a look at whatever was left of that body and it couldn't be good. Hardly anything was  _ good.  _ For a moment Ben wondered what Nate was up to. No house to repair, summer school classes over...what was he doing right now? Early dinner with friends? A beer on the couch as he flipped through a novel on his summer reading list? Ben could almost see it. Nate lounging on their soft beige couch, a cold bottle of Leffe sitting on the coasters they made at a pottery painting class. The soft but distinct flick of the pages turning. Nate always turned the pages of his book so quickly, like he was chasing the plot at breakneck speed. Ben used to love it...but as their relationship strained each flick of the page felt directed at him. At his faults. Of which there were many. 

The door knob jimmied loudly, and Ben looked up in time to catch Gates side stepping into the room, his hands occupied with files and coffee. Ben straightened up and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Gates’ expression was still sour, obviously tired, but otherwise unreadable. Ben swallowed thickly as the report was dropped onto the table.

“Mr. Tallmadge you are one lucky kid.” He said. The coffee was set down with a little more care than the report, just within reach as Gates pushed his chair in. “You have been ruled out as a suspect. The M.E. report came in, and it turns out the body was killed prior to your moving here by a considerable amount of time.” He flipped the manila folder open, the first page a neatly typed up report. “In fact, it happened before the house even went up for sale.” Ben quirked his head, unsure of how to process the news. Gates slid the report towards Ben for a better look.

“The victim is Benedict Arnold.” 

“The prior owner?” Ben balked. The first few lines confirmed the sex and age of the victim, as well as other indicators that the leaking garbage bag of human remains was once Arnold. Gates sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Just when I thought he'd stop being a nuisance.” He muttered under his breath. “I'm sure you may have heard from people in town that Mr.Arnold was a difficult fellow to get along with?” Ben nodded intently. “I've answered I don't know how many calls over complete garbage. Arnold instigating trouble at a bar, or Arnold calling the cops because he felt some tradesman was price gouging him. A real piece of work. He only stopped when I threatened to charge him for calling 911 on a nonemergency.” Gates leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak noisily. 

“Arnold disappeared ten months ago. Most folks assumed he ran from his debts but this….” There was a long,  _ long  _ list of inflicted injuries. “This looks like an awful messy shakedown turned murder. Loan sharks at the end of their tether.” Ben shuddered to think of it. Images from movies played in his head. A man strapped to a chair, bloody at the mouth and begging for forgiveness. Men with bats ready to smash his bones to dust. Some butcher who could get the body down to a less assembled state. It was grotesque. But still, it raised questions.

“How...how long was it there?” Surely the house had to be inspected before it was put on the market. They'd have to go over it carefully, especially with how run down it looked. Was it possible that  _ no one  _ saw or smelled the body as the summer heat began to rise?

“That's the thing. The body wasn't always there. We figure Arnold was murdered in his home, hell it's isolated enough that he could scream and no one would hear him. But the M.E. says that when they looked at the body it showed signs of being frozen. He was put on ice for months and then stashed under the porch. Probably to avoid the first wave of police looking for Arnold. The sharks who did this didn't count on someone buying that shit hole-- no offense.”

“None taken. It's a nightmare.” Ben scoffed. Gates brought the yellow legal pad back, and clicked his pen.

“This means we’re going to have to comb the house for evidence we didn't bother to look for the first time around. I need you to list all the renovations done to the place in the time you purchased it. I've already sent out a request for Ms. Freedman and her agency to do the same. But first I also need to know the names of everyone who has been in your home, and why.”

Thank god Ben wasn't the social type. “Only two. Abigail Freeman, who sold me the house. And George Washington...our relationship was professional, uh, turned personal.” Ben felt a flush creep over his cheeks as it fumbled out, unsure of how detailed he should be getting. Gates scoffed, mumbling something under his breath Ben couldn't catch. Seeing the way Gates wrote down George's name, he probably didn't have to think hard about his opinions on their relationship. 

Next, the legal pad was flipped, and Ben was instructed to list all of his repairs. Ben was thorough, listing every minor detail in order to help the investigation along. As the front page was turned over to add more, Ben felt a sinking feeling in his gut. They probably wouldn't find anything. All the repairs Ben had done did nothing but destroy evidence. And while he was no longer a suspect, it didn't comfort him knowing that he had inadvertently cleaned up after a murderer at large. A murderer who could very well come back to see what Ben knows…if he hadn't already. 

“Detective Gates, you said that the culprit placed the body under my porch thinking the house was still abandoned?” Ben asked. Gates was finishing his coffee, but looked in need of another. 

“Yeah. Body hadn't decomposed long. Maybe only a few weeks. Why?” Ben paused. He had been in the house a few weeks, noticing hardly anything unusual except…

“When I first moved in I was set up in the den. One of my first nights I heard this weird sound. Like something was scraping and circling around the house. I figured it was a coyote or a raccoon attracted by my trash. But it was really  _ odd.  _ Should I be worried that whoever did this is coming back to the house?” Ben said. There was a moment of silence, Gates mulling over everything he had heard that day in search of an answer.

“Probably not. The house is plastered all over the news. Has been since we asked you to come down. Whoever did this doesn't want that kind of attention, and believe me it’ll be the center of attention for quite some time. The last honest to God murder in this town was in 1993.” He gathered the papers, piling the pad and pen atop it as he headed for the door. 

“You're free to go. Keep close to your phone in case we need anything further.” 

“Thank you, Detective.” 

* * *

Outside the station Ben fumbled with his phone, desperate to separate himself from the long torturous day he had endured. He was barred from his home until further notice, and Gates had told him to call the station first thing in the morning for a officers to retrieve some of his necessities. Until then he was turned loose, standing numbly in the parking lot of the police station as the sky turned a hazy purple. The sun was gone, leaving only a thin crimson strip across the horizon. More crimson flashed before Ben’s eyes, and for a moment he could have sworn the sky bled onto his sweats, soaking him to the bone once more.

In his clammy hands the phone buzzed. Four missed calls from George. Two from Caleb. None from Nate. Ben sucked in a lungful of air and pressed call back. Something about hearing a phone ring made him nauseous. It droned on several times before Ben made out the sound of his call being picked up. 

“Benjamin?” George's rich voice trickled through the phone. Ben’s knees were weak. “Benjamin, I saw the news-- are you alright? I've been trying you all day.” His voice was soft and concerned, as though he didn't want to startle or smother Ben. It was endearing, really. Ben pressed the phone closer to his cheek, longing for the enveloping embrace of strong, steady arms. 

“Yeah, George I’m…” Ben’s voice cracked traitorously. “I’m so scared. Today was so awful and I should have never left your place. I can't go home, I don't have anywhere to go--”

“I'm sending you a cab. I'd come myself but I’d have to wait for the ovens to cool. Please, Benjamin...stay here.” George soothed. Ben felt tears spring to his eyes, and a whole day’s worth of sobs clawing up in his throat. 

“I can't, I...you didn't sign up for this. I'd be a burden.” Ben turned his back to the street as some news vans rounded the corner. He walked calmly down the road, hoping to avoid media confrontation. George let out a small sigh.

“You're not a burden. I know we haven't really talked much about  _ us _ , but I'd never turn you away, Ben. Please. Come stay here, and tomorrow we can take it step by step.” Ben coughed awkwardly, now walking briskly towards a McDonald’s up the road. The news crew lingered around the front of the police station, unaware of their near miss of an interview. 

“Ok. I’m at the McDonald's on Orchard.” 

George mumbled the address softly as he scribbled it down. “It’ll be there soon. And maybe pick up dinner?” He said, hoping to lighten the mood. Ben laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes as he glimpsed menu through the plate glass window. 

“I'm buying the most nuggets I can.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Dinner was hardly a comfort. Seated around the coffee table in George’s workshop, Ben felt more like an imposing guest than a lover. The chicken nuggets were semi warm at best when they sat down, and now they say cold and mostly untouched along with a stale bag of fries. George cleared his throat to catch Ben’s attention.

“You really should eat more, Benjamin. It’ll help you feel better.” Ben looked at his box of nuggets sadly, the swirl of honey mustard and ketchup looking a bit too visceral for him. The smell of rot entered his nose and he felt his dinner rise in his throat. The box was pushed a good distance away.

“I don’t think I can.” Ben croaked. George wiped his hands on a napkin and collected the leftovers. He had been patient. Not asked about the police station or the body. When the cab pulled up at his workshop George ushered Ben inside and had done nothing but be the model of excellence. Something Ben felt he didn’t deserve right now. He left Nate, squandered all their savings into a murder house, and now pulled his new lover into his mess of a life. All before the end of the summer. 

“I can save this for later. Maybe just a shower and a good night’s sleep. I shut down the ovens. It’ll be you and me tonight, I promise.” George said. Ben nodded, rising to head towards the shower outfitted in the workshop. “Not here, Benjamin. In my home. I mean it, just us. No work.” 

Ben hadn’t been in George’s house yet. He was always busy in his workshop, and in a way it was necessary. He could roll out of bed and make no excuses to work. Just like Ben. The small house that sat a hundred feet from the workshop seemed like a whole new world. Ben was rather curious to see how he lived. It sparked an innocent enthusiasm that helped shed this awful day from him. Like going for ice cream after a bad surgery. The pain was there, but something sweet would distract him for a couple blissful minutes. 

George ushered him across the gravel yard, swatting at the gnats and mosquitoes that came to enjoy the cool night air. “I forgot to light those bug repellent lamps—“ he hissed to himself as he fished out a small set of keys. Ben toed at the small wooden porch quietly. So far so good. Small, cabin style home. Nothing too tacky on the doormat or windows. It looked like a simple home nestled in a quiet part of the woods. The lock clicked open and Ben was shown in.

“Oh my god.”

“I know. It’s hideous.” 

Plaid. Everything plaid. The couch. The throw blanket. The braided rug, too? All that was missing was a wall of shotguns and a mounted deer head. Ben looked at George incredulously.

“I suddenly have doubts about your ability to make my window.” 

George laughed and closed the door. “This wasn’t my idea. I got most of my decor from my brother, who shall I say was a little... _ enthusiastic  _ about plaid. I’ve just been too lazy to redecorate. No one ever visits, anyway.” Ben felt his stomach sink a little at that. George tossed his keys into a little bowl on the table and shucked off his shoes. Ben did the same.

“It’s, uh...it’s not all bad.” He said, looking around once more. “It’s kind of cozy. Reminds me of Christmas.” George smiled that wonderful crooked smile. 

“In August?” 

“It’s a thing. God knows I need a little cheer right now.” The day hit Ben like another wave, washing away the little joy this hideously decorated abode gave him. All of a sudden he felt sick and tired. His loaned sweats smelled of the police station. There was antiseptic under his nails from where he was swabbed and cleaned. Nothing was his, or comforting. And every time he closed his eyes he saw bloated fingers and yellow rotting pus. George wrapped an arm around his shoulder sympathetically.

“Let’s get you into the shower.”

Ben was pleased to realize the plaid plague was confined to the living room. The rest of the house seemed quite normal. The bathroom was spacious, and Ben sat on the lip of the tub as George fetched spare clothes. From the time it was taking him it was clear he was having trouble finding his smallest size. It was still and quiet, all but for the creaking down the hall in the bedroom.  Ben scratched at his pants to fill the silence. It was too quiet. Ben scratched and scratched, his nails raking over the soft material of his pants in some effort to distract his mind from the day. There was a ketchup stain on his right knee. Or was that blood?  _ Whose blood?  _ Either way it prompted Ben to stand abruptly and vigorously scrub his hands under the faucet. 

“Benjamin?”

George stood at the door, clothes in hand. Ben realized he must have looked like a nervous wreck. He cleared his throat with an embarrassed cough.

“There...there was something on my pants.” Ben squeaked. George nodded solemnly. He started the shower for Ben and left the clothes on the toilet seat, giving him a quick peck on the cheeks he departed.

“Meet me in bed after, ok?” 

“Ok.” 

The hot water did wonders, but seemed to stop short of what Ben truly needed: complete and utter sanitization. His flesh crawled with phantom bugs, hair eternally greasy from sweat and stress. Three shampoos didn’t wash away the layer of grime that seeped deep into his scalp. No overflowing handful of body wash could scrub clean the reddish brown stain Ben saw in his mind. It spread from his chest and down the front of his thighs, soaking where Arnold’s freed limb landed. Red on his skin, white frothed soap down the drain. Red on his skin, white down the drain. Red skin. Red drain. 

“Oh shit.  _ Shit.” _

Ben tossed the shower puff aside to tend to the fresh cut across his stomach. It was surprisingly deep for one caught on a hangnail, but by the pinkish tinge of his skin Ben figured he had to be scrubbing pretty furiously. A few minutes of medicine cabinet snooping proved fruitful, and freshly dressed and bandaged Ben headed for the bedroom. 

Another wave of relief washed over him when he saw normal sheets and normal curtains. No plaid in sight. George looked up from his phone, reading the look on Ben’s face.

“It’s just a plague in the living room. I have it contained.” 

Ben smiled and tread softly to the bed. George was already tucked in, the soft comforter gathered around his waist. Though shirtless, he still wore his boxers, and Ben wondered if he should strip to match. George pulled back the covers to make space. “Come on in, Benjamin.” And so Ben did. He crawled in, settling into the large bed alongside George. 

It wasn’t that this was strange— he’d slept next to George before. But most nights that came after a few vigorous rounds of sex to burn them out. Ben tugged sheepishly at the waistband of George’s boxers, mulling over the idea of a quick one. George tutted, and interlocked his fingers with Ben.

“Not tonight.”

Ben curled tight, his head tucked neatly under George’s other arm. He didn’t dare unlace their fingers. He didn’t want to. He just wanted to go to sleep, wake up, and forget this ever happened. But that would never happen. The sun would rise. The news vans would return. And he had a few calls to make. Ben pressed his face into George’s side and wept. 

* * *

 

Ben’s cereal had turned to mush by the time he worked up the courage to press the call button on his phone. He had slept in, poked at breakfast, and brought it into the workshop before the mounting pressure to act got the better of him. Out of the corner of his eye George sketched out some window plans quietly, making the trilling over the line almost deafening. ‘ _ Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up. _ ’ Ben thought. He knew damn well that if it went to voicemail he’d have to call again, which took a type of courage Ben just didn’t have in him. Just then the phone clicked, almost sending Ben out of his skin.

“Ben?”

“ _ Nate.” _ Ben’s voice came out croaky and broken. It dawned on him that this was the first they’d spoken since Ben stormed out of their house, with Nate angrily slamming the door behind him. There was the sound of shuffling on the phone, like Nate was readjusting his phone.

“Hey, uh, is everything ok?” Ben’s vision blurred, the cereal bowl dissolving into a mess of tears. It was not alright. Being asked if everything is alright after being doused in cadaver cola is  _ not alright.  _ But the words seemed to put a bandaid on the last words Nate actually said to him: eat shit and die. 

“ _ No. No.  _ It’s not alright, Nate, something happened and I need Alex’s number.” Nate huffed loudly. Ben felt his stomach flip.

“Let me guess. That shit hole you sunk all our money into collapsed on some contractor and you need to lawyer up.” Ben could hear Nate throw his keys into the bowl on the kitchen counter. Ben clutched the phone to his ear tighter.

“Nate, I found a body under the porch.” Silence followed as Nate took it all in.

“You  _ what _ ?”

“It belonged to the previous owner, Mr. Arnold. I found him in pieces under the porch. I spent all day at the station but god I don’t know what to do. What this does to the house renovation or investigation. I need you to get Alex to come down here or—“

“Come home  _ now” _

Now it was Ben’s turn to fall silent. Throw the last couple months out the window, he couldn’t just  _ go home. _ Not with an active investigation he was  _ just _ cleared from. In a house he  _ still _ owned and lived. Not with him and George so...close. 

“Nate, I— I can’t just  _ come home. _ Didn’t you hear me?”

“I did. And whatever is down there is dangerous. Forget the house, forget the money. If I send Alex it’s to sort your business out with the sheriff so you can come home. Turn that dump over into evidence and let the state have it.” Tears rolled down Ben’s cheeks, which he quickly wiped away. 

“No,  _ no,  _ I can’t just take off with the investigation just starting—“

“You just said they cleared you as a suspect. I’ll call Alex, and he’ll hammer out some conditions so you can leave smoothly. Besides, they aren’t going to let you back in, and you’ll be stuck wasting money in whatever motel you’re holed up in—-“

“I’m not...I’m not in a motel, Nate.” Ben stammered. “I’m with a...friend.” George looked up curiously from his work. He mouthed a worried ‘ _ are you ok?’  _ , to which Ben waved lazily. He could handle this. He could tell Nate the truth. They were separated. This is what he wanted. This is what he told Nate he wanted. Nate exhaled long and slow. A breath Ben recognized as silent anger. 

“What kind of friend?”

Ben squirmed, crossing his legs to jiggle one foot anxiously. “Please don’t be like this. You know what I’m talking about. George—“

“ _ George. _ Just great. Well, I’ll text you Alex’s number, and you can call him when you’re through with George. Honestly, Ben, what bigger sign could you want than a dead body to tell you this shit was a bad idea?” Ben felt anger bubble up his throat. It burned something awful, bringing up the taste of his soggy Raisin Bran. 

“That’s  _ enough.  _ I called you because I needed help, not a guilt trip. Jesus Christ, Nate, a corpse spilled out of a garbage bag and you’re annoyed at who I’m  _ fucking? _ ”

“I’m annoyed because who you’re fucking is keeping you from doing the  _ sane _ thing and coming home. We can work past this but not while you’re down there. I still love you, Ben. I don’t care about the money.  _ Come home.  _ That’s all I want.”

Ben looked up from the table to see George listening with worry. A pang of guilt rippled through Ben. He couldn’t just leave. And Nate was right...George was keeping him. But this is what Ben  _ wanted.  _ All those months he sat seething in his couch with Nate. All the nights in bed where Ben closed his eyes and imagined some phantom man pumping into him instead of the same old routine. He gained his freedom when he left. He got the chance to live out what he truly wanted...and that was what he had with George. Wild, passionate. Even if they parted forever in September, Ben would be happy. He couldn’t say that right now about Nate.

“Just...send me the number, please?” Ben whispered. Nate sighed, the fight leaving his voice.

“Fine. Stay safe.” 

The line clicked off and Ben broke down into tears. George slipped silently to the table, his hands moving to pull Ben into a tight embrace. The phone slipped from his hands, clattering to the table so Ben could better throw his arms around George and dissolve into a mess of sobs.

“It’s not  _ fair”  _ And god was it childish to cry like this into George’s shirt, caught full swing in a tantrum that would put a toddler to shame, but he earned it. He fucking earned it. 

“I know is not fair.” George said, rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of Ben’s shirt. Ben hiccuped pathetically, pulling away in a failed attempt to keep the snot from running on George’s shirt. 

“All I needed was the number for our friend who’s a lawyer. That’s  _ all.  _ I told the police everything I know, I agreed to have them do their thing to get this over with, and now  _ this _ . God, he acts like I wanted this to happen.” Ben fished a crumpled up tissue from his pocket and dabbed at his nose. George grunted, handing him a fresh one from his own pocket.

“At least he’ll send you the number for the lawyer. If I were you I’d have done it yesterday but then you’d be stuck waiting in the station—“

“Covered in disinfectant and corpse grease, yeah.” Ben snapped. George quieted and looked down at his shoes timidly. 

“I’m sorry. I only meant that the police can twist your words around. You gave them all you know as good faith, but it could have been a lot worse. Especially with small town police.” George said. Ben felt a knot twist in his stomach, and remembered some personal information he had divulged in the station. 

“They had to know who was in the house, George.” He said dryly. George swallowed thickly, and though he tried to remain calm Ben could see his fist curl tight with anxiety. 

“And you told them that I am fixing your window or—“ George stopped, not seeing the use in finishing the question. “Benjamin, I’m not exactly  _ out _ here. My clientele is a little  _ conservative…”  _ George gestures towards the stained glass faces of saints watching them from the windows “ _ if you haven’t noticed.” _ Ben felt the tears return to his eyes. Two relationships and two lives ruined this summer. Fantastic record. A few months ago he could have reared his head back and made his case. But this was just another chip in a long line of strikes that had turned his stone resolve to rubble. The fight left Ben, and he stood up wearily from the table. 

“Look, I’ve caused enough trouble for everyone. I’m sorry.” Ben said. He grabbed his car keys and shoved them in his pocket. “There isn’t really an excuse for what I did and it’s fucked up. You live here permanently. I don’t. I should have lawyered up and lied about you. So I’m just gonna go.” George folded his arms across his chest, his eyes wet with tears.

“I’m not kicking you out, Benjamin. I’m just a little hurt.” His voice wavered, and so did Ben’s resolve. 

“I know. That’s why I’m kicking myself out. Saves everyone the hassle. Thanks for breakfast, George. I’m really...truly sorry.” And with that Ben turned out his heel and sped for the door. He maneuvered awkwardly around the work tables, afraid that even a moment’s pause would send him crumpling to his knees in a pathetic heap. He could be a mess in his car. Far away from here. Far away from George calling after him, following him urgently. Far, far, far—- 

Ben threw open the screen door to George’s workshop, stumbling out into the harsh light of day. His feet slipped on the loose gravel, the heat making the driveway shimmer like an endless gray wasteland. He strained his eyes as his hand readied the key, and his heart sank at the sight of George’s lone pickup parked crooked in the sun. George’s footsteps caught up to him, and a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

“ _ Benjamin _ , your car is at the house.” 

Ben dropped his keys— along with his dignity—and sobbed. 


	8. Chapter 8

The next day Ben found himself on the folded out futon in George’s workshop, curled around a worn old book of recipes he found idling on the counter. The mid afternoon sun trickled through the gap in the curtains above the futon, though not as intensely since George put up the blackout curtains. He had insisted Ben sleep, as the last night was broken up intermittently by nightmares and sobbing, but sleep was elusive. Ben enjoyed the noise of daytime. The clanking of tools, the sound of glass shards tumbling into a refuse bucket, George mumbling to himself as the day droned on. And besides, dinner would be in a few hours, and Ben had promised to cook. 

“Benjamin,  _ sleep.” _ George called out, spying Ben flipping the pages lazily. Ben stuck his tongue out playfully, pausing to read the fine print on the page.

“Nope. How’s stuffed shells sound?”

George mulled it over, making some note in a little handbook. “That sounds simple. We can run to the store after this.” He scratched away at the book, but tilted his head towards the refuse bucket brimming with discarded colored glass. “I have another sheet to break down before we go.” Ben sighed, resting the recipe book on the window ledge before shrinking into the thin throw blanket George had provided him. He rolled himself up in it, turning towards a box fan set up beside the bed. 

“Hurry, I’m hungry.” 

“Hi hungry, I’m G—-“

“ _ No.” _

George laughed, a little proud of himself as he got back to work. Ben watched from the bed as he busied himself with a large sheet of green glass. The workshop was stifling, as usual, but clad in his tank top and jeans George hardly seemed to notice. Ben, on the other hand, felt like a wilted flower. When he wasn’t curled into a ball, his limbs were dangling off the futon at all angles. Common sense said that getting rid of the blanket Ben was wrapped in would do the trick, but Ben couldn’t bear to be parted from it. It was soft and comforting, like a nightlight or a teddy bear. Ben ran his hands over the blanket, the plush fabric grounding him. He didn’t see blood or pus when he was under it. He could pet it and imagine he was home in Setauket, his old dog on his lap.

A harsh knock on the shop door sent Ben back to reality, snapping him out of his daze. George looked up briefly.

“Come in.” 

Silence, and then another series of knocks.

“Come. In.” George repeated, slower and louder this time. When another moment of silence was broken by a series of knocks George swore to himself. “Fuck. Ben, can you see who it is? If it’s a choirboy tell them I’m not home.” He returned to his work, scoring the glass a little harder with frustration. Ben sighed and peeled out of bed, padding to the door on silent feet. A fourth round of knocking had begun to start as Ben reached the door.

“Yes, yes we hear you—“ Ben said, throwing open the door. Just beyond the door was a face he found familiar; a woman with bright blue eyes, and honey blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun atop her head. She wore a uniform. 

“Benjamin Tallmadge? I’m officer Sarah Livingston, from the station.” She said, arms folded across her chest. Ben felt his heart skitter in his chest, and he stepped out, closing the door behind him. The last thing he wanted was to pull George into this mess. The fight over disclosing their relationship had passed, but Ben dreaded the idea of more eyes on George, especially after he offered his home to him. 

“Yes, yes I remember. How can I help you, officer?” Ben asked. Sarah put her hands on her hips, feeling around for something in her pockets. 

“Everyone’s tied up at the house on Oak, but I came to deliver some of your belongings.” She said. From her pocket she produced an evidence bag, jiggling it so that Ben could hear his car keys inside. “Don’t worry, it’s not considered evidence. Tow truck dropped your car here, since this is the address of your...uh...special friend.” Ben cringed a little at that, but accepted the bag. 

“Thank you. Is the car all?” 

“No, I went through your clothes and packed some for you so you’re not stranded out here in the same set of scrubs EMTs loaned you. Investigators are working fast so I suspect you’ll be back within the week. Only good thing about a small town. Give them something interesting and they snap to.” 

Ben nodded. His mouth went dry at the thought of returning to the house. He would work on it, sure, but he had no intention of sleeping there. Or going out in the yard again. Ben opened the bag and slipped his keys out. They felt good in his hand, a heavy weight that gave him some control back. But something gnawed at him.

“What are investigators saying? If I’m allowed to ask, that is.” Ben said. Sarah wiped some sweat off her brow lazily. Ben thought he overstepped his boundaries, as her face twisted into an extremely sour expression. 

“Arnold was wrapped up in all kinds of bad business. It looks like he pissed off some loan sharks who got tired of lending.” Ben paused, reading Sarah’s expression as she spoke. She said it, but it didn’t look like she meant it. In fact, she looked dubious. 

“Is that what you think?” Ben asked quietly. Sarah huffed, as though unsure whether she should share. Finally after a long moment, she did. 

“It doesn’t feel right.” She said, her brows knit with concern. “This is a small town, and any of these  _ loan sharks, _ well, they would have stood out. People here are observant, even when they don’t want to be. My husband knew that.” Ben fiddled with his keys.

“Your husband is a cop too?”

“Private detective. He was picking up on some leads regarding Arnold around the time of his disappearance—well, murder now I guess.” 

Despite it being a sweltering afternoon, Ben felt cold, as though someone had poured ice into his veins. If finding a body under your porch was bad, having a full blown conspiracy around your property was worse. Ben wanted nothing more than to thank Sarah and leave, just retreat back inside and curl up on the futon under George’s safe and watchful gaze. But he had to know. In some sick, awful way he had to know what evil was buried in the floorboards of the Drunken Oak. What bloodcurdling scheme Arnold has gotten himself into before his grisly demise. 

“What kind of leads?” Ben asked. It felt like sand in his mouth, falling in dry, gritty fragments into the suffocating heat around them. Sarah glanced over her shoulder, checking on the tow truck driver warily. 

“My husband was hired by the Shippen family. Their daughter Peggy had become romantically involved with Arnold. With his bad reputation her father wanted to scrounge up some dirt, because rumors were starting to circulate that they were going to get married. He didn’t want him in the family. 

Peggy is a kind hearted woman. I know she bailed Arnold out a few times for drunken disorderly conduct. Her father is another story. Once Arnold disappeared he dropped the investigation, despite my husband insisting that Arnold might have left with some money of Peggy’s—perhaps to buy a new place and elope. But Mr. Shippen dropped it all the same.” 

“Maybe that’s worth looking into. I think your husband should hand over his investigation to the department.” Ben watched as Sarah’s lips twitched into a frown, her gaze somewhat wistful. 

“Wish I could. He died earlier this year in a car accident. Bad weather and shitty breaks.” Sarah coughed to clear the tightness in her throat. “Anyway I tried to hand the folders off to the Sheriff but his hunch is on this mafia angle. I don’t have much rank to pull in the department.” 

Ben nodded, though he felt shaken to the core. He jiggled the keys in his hands once more in a desperate attempt to break the tension— or the knot forming in his gut. Livingston snapped out of the tiny storm cloud she had put herself under. 

“Right. So your clothes and items are in the trunk. I’ll let you know when you can return to the house. In the meantime, take my card. If you remember anything give me a call.” She handed a small card from her pocket, where the sheriff’s office number was listed, along with her extension. Ben took it, reading the card over as if committing it to memory. 

“Thank you, officer.” 

“No problem. Stay safe.” 

With that she left the porch, her boots crunching on the gravel as she headed to the tow truck. Ben watched her climb into the passengers side, throwing a quick wave through the window before the truck rolled out of the lot. 

With a deep sigh Ben pocketed the card, and stepped off the porch to retrieve his bags before they baked in the hot sun. Popping the trunk Ben found two bags. One was a duffle, soft and lumpy with clothes. The other was a messenger bag, with his laptop and other various electronics. He might be away from home, but now he wasn’t helpless. 

Heaving the bags onto his shoulder, Ben made his way back to the workshop, eager to occupy his mind with anything other than the awful rumors he had been fed. He fumbled with the screen door, and it slammed loudly behind him as he entered the dimly lit workshop. George jerked his head up from his work, startled.

“Benjamin? Is everything ok?” 

Ben shuffled towards him, lifting the bags to show them off. “Police returned my car and some clothes. Now I don’t need to borrow yours.” He said, adding a little cheer to his voice to ward off  George’s concern. He dropped the bags on the futon, flopping down beside them seconds after. “Which is great because at this rate I was just going to chill out naked.” George grinned wickedly.

“You still could, if you want.” 

Ben rolled over on the futon, rearranging his limbs into a pose he hoped was somewhat seductive. “I’ll be like a sexy pinup calendar, but real.”

“Would you, now?”

“I would. This is my August pose. Do you like it?” Ben asked, wiggling his hips. George looked him over, his gaze dragging up and down Ben’s figure, pausing to stare at the strip of midriff peeking from his bunched up shirt. It was a look Ben had begun to miss. George had been a gentleman these past few days, but it wasn’t exactly a gentleman Ben was looking for when they first went out. 

“Too many clothes for my taste.” George said. To Ben’s delight he set down his tools, and made his way over to the nook he occupied with slow, teasing strides. “But I’d like to see more.” 

Ben felt excitement prick in his gut as George knelt on the bed, one leg on either side of him, the two of them causing the flimsy futon to creak and groan. He felt his cock twitch eagerly at the outline of a bulge in George’s jeans, and the hungry look in his eyes. Ben returned a sly grin, moving to wriggle out of his shirt as George loomed over him. 

“Let me show you, then.”

* * *

Having the car back was a miracle in itself. With no work on the house, and being of little use to George’s craft, Ben enjoyed taking on the little tasks. Coffee runs, groceries, anything to bring a little normalcy to his life. Today it was picking up detergent, enjoying the cool blast of the AC as he picked up a smoothie from the drive thru window on the way home. 

Ben had barely taken the drink out of the hands of some teen at the window when his phone began to chime. He glanced down to see Caleb’s smiling face on the screen, his video call waiting to be accepted. Quickly, Ben pulled his car into the parking lot of the restaurant, and pressed the call button

“Benny, long time no see! Did ya miss me while I was at sea?” 

Ben smiled, stirring the thick icy sludge of his pineapple mango smoothie with his straw. “I’ve been,uh, a little  _ busy _ . But yeah.” To be truthful, Ben had been silently dreading this call since the morning after he returned from the police station. Calling Nate was painful enough. The thought of Caleb docking back home, hearing all the awful things that had happened to him, it didn’t sit right.

It seemed a little silly to try and hide this from Caleb. Obviously, when he would ask about the house Ben would come clean. He would tell him every dirty detail they found under the porch, and all the awfulness that ensued in the days after. But right now Ben needed to live that lie. He didn’t need another person worrying about him, or babying him. He only just got George to look at him again with something more than quiet pity. Got him to touch and fuck like they did before someone’s innards spilled all over his lap. So hearing Caleb over the phone, seeing his unchanging smiling face...Ben wasn’t ready to let that go just yet. 

“Atta boy, Ben! My guess is that smoothie is a post coital treat?”

Ben sipped his smoothie, his cheeks genuinely pinching with glee. “ _ Maybe. _ ” It wasn’t exactly the first treat Ben had given himself since riding George on the futon, but who was counting. “But enough about that. Tell me about the charter. Catch anything good?”

“Oh ho! You tell me!” Caleb moved his phone, flipping the camera to show a large cooler teeming with fish packed in pink tinged ice. “We made out like bandits. When I got home, and Abe stopped heavin’ his guts, Mary promised to have a cookout. Abe’s building the fire pit, and we’re gonna smoke these boys.” 

“Ah man. I love cookouts.” Ben said, settling back into his chair. “Now I’m going to hate the pasta I’m making tonight.” Caleb popped open a beer, the can hissing and foaming off screen.

“I could still swing on by if you’d like. You bring the firewood, we’ll catch some fish and cookout on the beach.” Caleb said. Ben felt a pang of guilt. This was the first summer in a long time Ben was completely away from Caleb as well. With two sets of hands, he and Nate made record time on their projects. Long weekends were affordable, and Ben would often hop aboard Caleb’s boat to escape the heat. In running here to escape Nate, he had effectively ran away from Caleb as well. 

“You know what...yeah. That would be great.” Ben said. “I’d like that.” Caleb’s face lit up, the beer in his hand foaming over as he gestured enthusiastically. 

“That’s fantastic! Are you sure you won’t be missin’ work though?” Ben sighed, balling up a napkin and throwing it onto the seat beside him.

“I’m certain it won’t be a problem.” 

Ben paused as a text message dropped across the screen, displaying George’s name squarely over Caleb’s forehead.

_ [Can you pick up a new ruler? Mine melted. -G] _

Ben let out a laugh louder than he expected, startling Caleb— who was already babbling on about what marina they could meet up at. 

“Hey Caleb, George needs me to go pick something up. Can I call you later so we can plan?” The smoothie was hastily placed in the cup holder as Ben put the car into drive. A quick glance at the time showed he had about a half hour until the hardware store closed, which should be plenty for a ruler. 

_ “ _ Yeah, of course! Call me when you can.”

“Bye, Caleb.” The line clicked off, and Ben’s forgotten playlist returned on the speakers as he left the parking lot, turning up toward the direction of Townsend hardware. 

Ben mulled over his decision as he rolled down Main Street. The sun had begun its slow crawl to horizon, dropping the temperature just enough to tempt people outside. In the late afternoon sun people crowded the bars,fresh off of work and ready to wash the day down with a drink. Ben noted the smiling, carefree faces as he passed by. Caleb was right. This was summer. He was supposed to be having fun. Getting drinks, getting  _ laid.  _ Spending time with friends at cookouts and happy hours. Well, as much fun as one could have after discovering a body…

Ben pulled into the little parking lot, noting the slim amount of cars idling in spaces in front of Townsend hardware, and dreaded the idea that Samuel had convinced Robert to close up early. He cut the ignition, clambering out of the car to do a little urgent jog to the shop door, hopeful that the “We Are Open” sign was still on display. It was, thankfully, displaying the shop hours as it always did. 

Ben slowed to a trot as he approached the door, stopping just in time to miss colliding with a customer barreling out of the store, wearing a look of awkward embarrassment. Ben caught the door before it swung close, slipping in amongst the clatter of the bell chimes the customer left in his wake. He was not greeted by the cheery face of Samuel Townsend, as he always was. Instead Ben found himself in a dark shop, lit only by the sunlight streaming through the dusty windows. 

The front counter was unattended, and Ben approached it cautiously, wondering what could have sent the other man rushing out in such a hurry. Ben’s first thought was a robbery, as the floor behind the counter was littered in screws, papers, and things knocked over from behind the register. It spiked panic in Ben, wondering if the man he just let out of the shop was the perp, and he was left to find Samuel and Robert duct taped in the back office...or worse...two more bodies he wouldn’t be able to explain to police. 

But the look on the man didn’t fit the bill. He rushed out as though he was uncomfortable, and he was shoving his wallet back into his pocket as though he were done paying. Glancing to the side, Ben caught sight of a $20 sitting close to the register. Whatever the reason, the man left without change or talking to Samuel. From the back of the store voices raised, and Ben tipped his head curiously to listen in.

“—honestly, Robert, this is a little bit of an overreaction.”

“ _ Overreaction?  _ Father, look around, we have no electricity. They shut off our service. How many times have I told you—“

“Yes,  _ I know. _ The screws. The paint stirrers. The extra bits and pieces. But those things aren’t the direct cause of all this, Robert, you know that.” 

There was a frustrated sigh, and some mumbling that prompted Samuel to scold out a curt “ _ Language!” _

“I’ve said it many times. We  _ cannot compete _ with places like Home Depot. The free things  _ add up. _ Steadily, our customers have been going elsewhere. While  _ you _ are out here jabbering,  _ I  _ am up there keeping tabs on this place, and it is floundering.” 

“Robert, really. I’ve owned this store for _thirty_ _years_. We’ve weathered through rough times before and always managed to bounce back—-“ From his spot by the door Ben could hear Samuel move, his voice weaving in and out of the aisles as if to escape the anger seeking through Robert’s gritted teeth. Robert’s heavier footsteps followed after, his voice angry and impatient. Quietly, Ben chose two rulers, and slipped in his earbuds. It was one thing to be listening, it was another to be caught doing so. 

“This  _ isn’t the same,  _ father. This isn’t a recession, or a small town economy shifting, it’s just business. Chain stores, online sales, those are the day to day and we’re not equipped. You think we can weather it? So did Arnold when Walmart came through. So tell me, father, what porch will I find  _ you under—“ _

They stopped short as they rounded one of the aisles, finally happening a upon where Ben lay lurking. Robert composed himself in an instant, catching Ben’s eye only long enough to offer a polite nod. Samuel was less able, and Ben could see he had been crying, his cheeks still damp with tears. 

“Benjamin! I didn’t hear you come in, my boy.” Samuel said, throwing himself full force into his old, cheery self. Ben popped out one of his earbuds, pretending to be startled himself.

“Sorry! I got caught up in my music, I figured you stepped away for a minute.” Ben stepped up to the counter just as Samuel hurriedly skirted around it, his feet sweeping away what Ben now figured was an angry mess. 

“I did, Benjamin, I did. Just a moment, too—“ he caught sight of the $20 sitting on the counter and slipped it into his pocket before whispering “ _ Let’s hope they were honest.” _ He offered it as a jest, but Ben felt a twist of guilt after overhearing the intense argument between the two. “Just those then?”

“Oh, yes. Just these.” Ben said. He placed the rulers down, fumbling for his wallet while Samuel slipped them both into a black plastic bag. He must have looked more rumpled than he hoped, because Samuel looked upon him with a solemn quiet that couldn’t be eased by the crinkling of the plastic bag.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin.” 

Ben felt his fingers shake as he pulled out a $10. “ _ Oh _ ?” He croaked. 

“About your home. Word’s gotten out on the news about Arnold. It’s a terrible tragedy.” 

Ben placed the $10 on the counter, that familiar knot of dread twisting in his stomach. “Yeah. I’d be surprised if I can even complete the project after…” he gestured vaguely, but Samuel caught on. After  _ finding it. _ “Besides...who would even want the place after all that.” Samuel scoffed to himself, tearing off the receipt for the rulers.

“There  _ are _ people. Why every time I turn on the tv there’s a new murder show of this or that. Some people are morbid like that. But if you can’t finish it, Benjamin, don’t. You’re a delightful young man and it breaks my heart that this is the memory of our town you’ll carry with you.” 

Ben paused a moment, taking note of the sad way Samuel held himself. His eyes were still pink and puffy from crying, his voice obviously hoarse from yelling. Perhaps Robert’s words had wounded him, or he had begun to see the cracks in a nearly thirty year long business, but it seemed to weigh down his very soul. And Ben, for one, had seen enough heartache this summer.

“I wouldn’t say that. You and Robert have been very kind to me, I’d rather remember that.” With that Ben picked up his bag, offering a sincere smile as he headed towards the door. “And I’m still making myself useful, so it’s not a wasted summer.”

Samuel smiled softly, bending to gather some of the mess on the floor. “Right there with you, Benjamin. Have a good day”

* * *

By the time Ben parked the car outside of George’s, the sky had turned dusky purple. Fireflies flickered in the twilight, blinking in and out of existence along the wooded area surrounding the house. Ben stepped out into the humid evening air, moving to get the groceries out of the back, when the screen door slammed, and heavy footsteps trotted up the driveway.

“Ben!”

Ben paused, turning to see George rush up to meet him. He looked giddy, a knowing smile gracing his face as he came to a stop, and Ben was quite charmed. 

“Yeah?” Ben asked, giving George a good once over. They fucked that afternoon, sure, but the sweaty tank top and jeans combo never failed to get Ben’s blood pumping. George smoothed back a few locks from his face, catching his breath. 

“Leave the groceries for now. I have something to show you.” He said. Ben hesitated, not wanting to leave the ricotta tub he had purchased out in the heat any longer, but George offered his hand. “I’ll bring them in. Just...come with me.”

“ _ Ok”  _

Ben took his hand, letting George guide him back towards the workshop. A few fireflies blinked lazily on the porch, floating close to them as they neared the screen door. 

“Close your eyes?”

Ben closed his eyes, stepping with much more caution as they entered the shop. “Let me guess. I’m going to sit on the futon and you’re going to strip?” Ben joked. George snorted, his hands gently urging Ben along. 

“ _ Not a chance. _ This is better.” They wove around tables and displays, heading back towards the work table George was frequently bent over. George let go of Ben’s hands, letting them fiddle with each other while he walked off.

“Can I open them?”

“Just a few more seconds! I promise….” there was a little clamoring. Some clinking and cloth ruffling, and the sensation of a light being flicked on. The word flowed orange through Ben’s closed eyelids, and he squeezed them even tighter to avoid the temptation of peeking. Finally, the torment was over, as George let out a content sigh.

“Ok. Now!” 

“ _ Oh my god.” _

Ben opened his eyes to a wash of colors. Propped up on the table was a large round window, backlit by a soft white studio lamp. The window itself was more beautiful than anything Ben could imagine. Rich blues and pinks dappled the sky in their geometric cut glory. Greens and yellows curved around the lower half, mimicking soft patchy grass. And right in the center was the oak tree, tall and strong, with bark of jeweled garnet and violet hues. It’s leaves shimmered like rich emeralds in the summer sun, so much so that Ben had to marvel in slack jawed awe that it was just  _ glass.  _ Behind him two strong arms wrapped around his waist. 

“Do you like it?”

Ben twisted around in the embrace, his lips catching George’s in a long languid kiss. “It’s beautiful.” He wrapped his arms around George’s neck, letting his fingers tangle in his damp red hair as he soaked him all in. “I’m lucky.” The resulting lovesick expression on George’s face was all Ben needed to see. 

“I’m lucky too.” 

Ben bit his lip, his hands playfully wandering over George’s shoulders and down his chest, where he planted a small kiss. George let out a small noise of curiosity.

“And what are you doing?” 

Ben placed another kiss on George’s stomach, sinking to his knees to better nip and tease around the sensitive skin above George’s waist band. With a few nimble moves, Ben undid the belt, and slowly unzipped the fly to George’s tight blue jeans. “Well...you’re lucky...I’m lucky...I figured we can put those two things together.” George’s breath hitched as he watched Ben hook his fingers under the waistband, and yank down.

“ _ Yes please.” _

**Author's Note:**

> More benwash prompts and questions can be found on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy
> 
> Feed my greedy author soul and leave some comments.


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